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Embraced by the Shadows by Mayra Calvani

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Embraced by the Shadows by Mayra Calvani

Embraced by the Shadows By Mayra Calvani Twilight Times Books Kingsport, Tennessee

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Embraced by the Shadows by Mayra Calvani

Embraced by the Shadows No person, persons or places in this book are real. All situations, characters and concepts are the sole invention of the author. Copyright © 2002 by Mayra Calvani. Previous edition published by Amber Quill, 2003, with title, "Dark Hunger." Author's preferred edition published April 2006. All rights reserved. Except for very brief quotes in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form. Twilight Times Books P O Box 3340 Kingsport TN twilighttimesbooks.com/ Credits Cover artwork—Ardy M. Scott Managing Editor—Ardy M. Scott Publisher: Lida E. Quillen Electronically published in the United States of America.

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PROLOGUE Istanbul, twelve years ago As soon as he saw her, he knew the time would come when he would make her his eternal companion. She shone like a sparkling jewel amidst the crowd, with her slightly-slanted large black eyes and her silky reddish curls rippling down her small back. A mere child-woman, she stood in front of one of the many shops which swarmed this ancient place, gazing intently at an oil painting of angels displayed in the vitrine. Dramatic and somewhat disturbing, the painting depicted in painful detail an auburn-haired angel being cast out of Heaven. He caught her scent. Somewhat dazed, he stared at her. The same slanted black eyes, the same long reddish hair. Uncanny, the resemblance. She looked so much like... For a bitter second he closed his eyes and commanded himself to forget. Then everything was fine again, and his eyes opened and the faintest shadow of a smile crossed his face. Would he drink from her tonight? Would he allow himself that luxury? Three-hundred years ago he would have been unable to take the little drink. He would have been too fervent, too lost in rapture. But that was three centuries ago. Not that he indulged in the little drink too often, for he liked to take his victims completely, loving the gush of warm blood in his mouth, until he ceased to hear the haunting, drum-like beat of the heart. No, he would not touch her. He would leave her intact. 5

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He studied her in silence. She seemed mesmerized by the painting of the fallen angel. The virulent clouds, the agonizing faces of the good angels surrounding the "fallen" one, the almost palpable sadness and rage—these seemed to strike a deep core within her. He could see through her artistic soul; unbeknown to herself, she had fallen in love with the beauty of the colors, the purity of the lines, and the tragic fatalism of it. A sigh escaped her. She glanced distractedly at the passing tourists with an annoyed spark in her eye. Turning to face the street, she waited for her mother and uncle, who were inside the shop. She pouted, restless and tired and bored. He scanned her crystal thoughts. It was like breathing in the delicate scents of spring mountain air, so intoxicating. She loved the painting, but there's no way her mom would get it for her; it wasn't too large but looked way too expensive. She wanted to go back to their hotel, she wished she were back home, where she could roller-skate with her best friend. This place stank of old clothes and sweat, and she didn't want to see another stupid museum or mosque in her entire life. Why in the devil had they brought her here? And then something happened. She seemed to have sensed his piercing gaze, and looked right to his direction. For an intense moment her black eyes locked themselves into his. She seemed startled, her pale face solemn. She averted her gaze, slightly turning her face away, only to throw him a curious sideways glance a second later. A perfectly 6

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unconscious gesture, yet she couldn't have guessed in a million years the effect it had on him. He would have consumed her right then and there, if it weren't for one of his self-imposed rules about staying away from children. Not that he was doing a great job at this moment. Here he was, wasn't he? Devouring her with his eyes as a wolf devours a lamb. But even in his mortal lifetime, sticking to rules had never been one of his greatest qualities. Her mother and her uncle, carrying bags of goods and souvenirs in their hands, stepped out of the shop. The little princess pointed to the painting and pleaded with her mom to get it for her. Her mother took one look at the painting and shook her head. "That's morbid!" she said, then went on to argue that she had already bought her many gifts and her unreasonable requests would make her bankrupt. Nevertheless, she went inside the shop to ask for the price. A moment later she came back, looking incredulous and muttering in disbelief, "Ridiculous! A thousand dollars for that thing. Sorry, mi amor, but I can't afford it." It was late, almost ten, but the Grand Bazaar was bustling with locals and tourists, as it had always been on warm summer nights for the past few centuries. The glitter of gold and copper and brass, lavishly displayed behind dozens and dozens of shop windows, could dazzle anybody's eyes: Heavy spices, Ottoman sweets of grape and nut pastes with the promise of aphrodisiac qualities, sacks filled with Arab coffees and the best teas from the northeastern little city of Rize, almond oils and musks, hennas, hundreds of hand-made silk 7

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carpets with exorbitant price tags, their bright colors and details blinding. And the leather—endless leather shops, filled with the soft yet pungent scent of animal skins. A very loud, wildly exotic belly-dancing melody came out of one of the shops, and an oddly pleasing smell, that of cigarette smoke mixed with incense and raki—the local alcoholic drink made from anise—hovered in the air. Her uncle took her by the hand, and they all started to walk toward the exit passage of the bazaar. She suddenly glanced over her shoulder to look at him, her eyes wide with curiosity and wonder. It caught him off guard. He gave her a smile, and quickly had to close his mouth. Damn! He had gotten carried away, and in spite of himself, his canines had partially lengthened. He could feel their sharp and pointed little tips against his lower lip. She frowned, startled and a bit uncertain, not sure whether what she had seen was illusion or reality. Then she turned her head forward and that was that, she was lost amidst the crowd. He felt just a twinge of guilt. He had not meant to frighten her. For an awful moment he craved to hold her, to pierce the tender curve of her throat. The image was too tortuous for him to tolerate. He despised himself. She's too young, you old fiend. In long easy strides he went out of the bazaar and into the open night air, and from a distance watched them get into a taxi and ask for the Istanbul Hilton. 8

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Her uncle now seemed in good spirits, clapping his hands and saying he couldn't wait to get to the casino. Suddenly overwhelmed by a keen urge to appease himself, he walked into one of the many ill-reputed, dark narrow streets near the bazaar and finished off a couple of shabby, despicable-looking mortals in two intense short draughts. Then he walked back into the bazaar to purchase the painting. Once out of the shop, he headed to the Istanbul Hilton...

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CHAPTER 1 Alana woke with a start. She lifted herself on her elbows and glanced quickly about the room. Darkness. A bit panicky, she fumbled for the night lamp by her bed and switched it on. She could hear herself breathing. Her heart pounded hard inside her chest, and a sticky film of perspiration covered her skin. She felt exhausted, confused, even mortified, and yet secretly excited, fascinated. It had happened again for the third time. The dream. Or was it a nightmare? But nightmares are supposed to frighten, and she had not been frightened. She had been ... but no, it was too weird. She rose heavily from the bed. She walked over to the dressing table and, leaning on it, stared at herself in the mirror. Her dark almond-shaped eyes looked huge under the subtle yellow light. Her long lashes cast eerie shadows across her face and gave her a ghostly appearance. Her hair tumbled in wild tousled waves to either side almost to her waist. Annoyed, she shoved one heavy strand away from her face. What a morbid creature you are, she told herself. Then she laughed, softly. It felt good, laughing; strangely comforting. At least her sense of humor never abandoned her. She walked over to the sliding glass door and opened the curtain. The clear Puerto Rican night sky spread out before her like an enormous luminescent tapestry. At seventeen stories high, she couldn't ask for a better view. Unlike many 10

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people she knew, she didn't mind the height at all. In fact, she loved it. A few months ago, when she had been looking for an apartment to rent, she had told the real estate agent that she wanted a really high place, that she wanted to live high up in the skies, that she wished to have the feeling of being able to fly off one night if she wanted to. Fly off? Why had she said such a silly thing? She pushed open the sliding glass door and stepped out into the balcony. There was no moon tonight, no breeze, only a bold and disturbing stillness. Closing her eyes, she began to massage her temples with the tips of her fingers in soft, circular motions. She tried to go back to her dreams, tried to submerge herself into the murky waters of her subconscious. She tried to force herself to remember the whole thing from beginning to end. But, as usual, it was no use. Everything came to her in little fragments. The creature. Or was it a man? The strength and safety of the powerful arms that could have crushed her in a second. And the face, a face she couldn't remember but which she knew—somehow she knew—to be wise and magnificent and ancient. The hypnotic way the fingers had touched her, caressing her ever so lightly, and sending such powerful shivers into her body that she had almost convulsed. The finger had traced little circles on her throat ... no, it had been a long nail, she could recall that distinctly. A long and pointed nail like storybook witches have. Yet she had not been afraid nor repulsed by it. On the contrary, it had sent her into a delicious trance from which she had not wanted to escape. The raspy tongue, icy 11

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cold, had licked the soft curve of her throat, the nape of her neck, and she had felt herself lost, drowned in a bottomless lake of rapture. And the teeth ... yes, the evil teeth! Uncannily long, sparklingly white, razor-sharp. "Oh, my God," she whispered, opening her eyes and shaking her head. "I'm going crazy." She had always been an unusual child, perpetually obsessed with anything that had to do with the occult, ghosts, werewolves, witches. In secondary school she used to pretend she was possessed by the devil and frighten the other girls, staring at them with a demonic expression on her dark-eyed face. She always had her nose in a book, the kind of book that wasn't suitable for an innocent girl of her age in a Catholic convent school—books about witchcraft, demons, the psychology of criminals, famous murders in history. But even though she was morbidly interested in all of this, most of the time, simply out of boredom, she enjoyed shocking her classmates. One day, for instance, she drew on the blackboard a picture of a woman, a large curved knife in hand, stabbing a man. It was a very detailed picture—droplets of blood dripping from the wounds and the knife. Of course, the nuns became horrified. The news of this demonic act reached Mother Superior, who summoned Alana into her office. But Alana, with her sweet nature and good grades, told her that it had all been a joke, a bad joke to scare her classmates. The nuns always forgave her, loved her, thinking that they understood her. Alana was sure the nuns attributed it to the 12

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loss of her mother. They had to, after all, the girl was most likely suffering, had recently lost her mother. Apart from this fierce curiosity for the supernatural, Alana had been a totally normal child—with all the good and bad that goes with it. That's why she couldn't understand this darker side she had. She felt as if it had always been part of her, though it had intensified after her mother's death. But then again, perhaps it was only human to have a darker side. Perhaps everybody had one. And the dreams... "It's all because of that ridiculous place," she muttered, turning back into her bedroom, suddenly angry at the world in general. Who had thought of opening that silly place, anyway? La Cueva del Vampiro—what a cliché. If she were the owner of the place, she would have been more original than that. Perhaps she would tell the owner. But she didn't even know the owner, had never met the person, didn't even know if it was a man or a woman. Wait a minute. She knew it was a businessman, the old man who gave her the job had said so. "Congratulations, Señorita Piovanetti. The job is yours." It was a soft voice, nearly caressing. "Really?" She stared at him, surprised. "I don't see why not. A degree in philosophy from the University of Boston, magna cum laude, and from what I can tell from the interview—imaginative, responsible, enthusiastic. These are important qualities in a manager. It's true that you don't have any working experience, but that's not very important." 13

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"No?" This was crazy. She didn't know anything about business. She hated anything having to do with business! "Not at all. It's always better to hire somebody young, with fresh ideas ... like you." He smiled vaguely. Had there been a strange shimmer in his eyes? A tall thin man in his late sixties, he'd been clad in an expensive-looking grey suit, with an oddly alluring smell emanated from him, redolent of pines and humid earth. He explained how he was not the owner of the restaurant, no, not at all, the owner was an important businessman who traveled a lot. No, not Puerto Rican, not American, why was she so interested in his origin? He had smiled, condescending. He represented the owner's business interests here in San Juan. He had been put in charge, whatever problems she might have she should contact him.... So, even though she was only a twenty-two-year-old Nietzsche freak fresh out of college, she had gotten the job as the restaurant manager of La Cueva del Vampiro, the new nightclub everybody in the city was talking about. She would get an excellent salary, ridiculously so, and she needed the money to pay her share of the apartment. Later, after having acquired some working experience, she would look for another job, maybe go for her master's. Restaurant management was definitely not for her, but the truth was, as soon as she had read the job opening in the newspaper, she had been instantly and magnetically drawn to it. The idea of dressing up as a vampire, of pretending to be a vampire became an immediate obsession. It appeared too good to be true, and yet she had a bizarre feeling deep inside her, as if the job had somehow been 14

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waiting for her. For her. But no. As usual, she kept falling prey to her imagination. Her friends, who knew all about her perpetual fascination with the supernatural, had been happy for her, congratulated her, joked about how at last she had fulfilled her dreams and become a vampire. A vampire! Ominous jokes, they were. And she had laughed, they had drunk champagne until two in the morning, and she had gotten shamelessly intoxicated. And then that night she had had the first dream. The creature or whatever it was. Taking her in his arms, doing terrible yet wonderful things to her, taking her away, far, far away, somewhere.... She glanced at the clock on the night table, a Mickey Mouse mechanical clock she had bought in Disney World when she was a little girl. It said 3:05 a.m. It looked out of place, the Mickey Mouse clock. Smiling Mickey, with his thin arms and white-gloved hands pointing at the numbers. It looked too innocent, somehow contrasting sharply with the sober, modern furnishings. She had walked into the shop with her mother, who pointed out to her that the Snow White clock was much nicer. But no, just to go against her mother, Alana had chosen the Mickey Mouse clock. Even after all these years, the memory still made her wince. Taking a long deep breath, she went back to bed, trying to clear her mind, to shove away the thoughts about her dead mother. She knew from experience how damaging they could be. And the creature... 15

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She closed her eyes tightly, as if by doing so, she could push away the haunting memory of that long pointed nail at her throat, of the gooseflesh the mere recollection of his proximity gave her. Go away, damn you, go away, leave me alone, let me sleep! She needed sleep. Tomorrow was the opening night at La Cueva del Vampiro. **** "What would you like?" Valeria Acosta said, her moist brown eyes scanning the menu with childish relish. "I'm not very hungry," Alana said. "I'll just have a salad and a glass of wine." "You're not hungry? I'm starving! I'll have ... I'll have the T-bone steak with French fries." They were sitting at their favorite corner table at El Metropol, a lively Cuban restaurant with low prices, friendly waiters, and generous portions. As usual at this time, the place was filled with voices and laughter and the clinking of forks and plates and glasses. Lots of noise, lots of cigarette smoke. Frantic waiters rushing trays from one end of the place to another. After they had ordered and the waiter served them their wine, Valeria lifted her glass to Alana and said solemnly, "To my twin soul. May you have unlimited success in your first job. Or should I say, in your first immortal job?" Alana grinned, raising her glass. 16

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They had been inseparable friends since they first met in primary school, maybe because in many ways they shared the same thoughts, had the same fantasies, liked and disliked the same things. Twin souls. Ever since they were little, they had agreed on that. In their minds there existed no other explanation for such closeness. They would read the same books, play the same games. Always together, the redhead and the blonde. That's how Mother Superior referred to them, the redhead and the blonde. Who pulled Karen's braids? The redhead and the blonde. Who escaped from the dining hall to avoid lunch? The redhead and the blonde. Who sneaked into the library to read books about ghosts and witches? The redhead and the blonde. Everybody who saw them was touched by their charm. How could they not be? They were unusually lovely, with their respectively red and blonde locks, their creamy white complexions. In an island where most children were darkhaired and dark-skinned, Alana and Valeria possessed very uncommon physical traits. But the teachers knew about them and would always separate them, so they wouldn't speak in class. It was strange, this closeness, this intimacy. Sometimes one would look at the other, and understanding would follow. Valeria always claimed their minds were telepathically linked. But Alana, a bit more skeptical, thought there was nothing magical about it. Only they were so close, knew each other so well, that often they sensed one another's thoughts. Rebellious and stubborn, they both considered themselves utter pessimists. But as much as they resembled one another, 17

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in some aspects they differed completely. Valeria acted cooler, more pragmatic and unscrupulous, while Alana tended to be more impulsive, temperamental, moody. Sometimes they had awful fights, even fist fights when they were little, but they always came back together, kissing and hugging. Oddly, this difference in their personalities only served to bind them stronger together. Going to college in Boston turned out to be a hard decision for Alana. That night they got totally drunk. They talked and cried and laughed. They would miss each other terribly, but Valeria seemed happy for her. They had a genuinely beautiful friendship, and no distance would ever keep them apart. Untouchable, the two musketeers. The twin souls. So while Alana had gotten a degree in Philosophy from the University of Boston, Valeria, whose family didn't have the financial means to send her abroad, had gotten hers in Architecture from the University of Puerto Rico. After graduation, Alana, glad to say goodbye to the cruel Boston weather, came back to her sticky hot island, to her family and friends, to Valeria. Then they did what they had always planned on doing together: looked for jobs, searched for a cozy apartment, and shared the rent. They clinked glasses. Alana took the red wine to her lips and drank eagerly, watching Valeria as she did the same. "Mmmm. Delicious," Alana said. She began fiddling with the fork, her favorite pastime while waiting for her food at restaurants. 18

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"So?" Alana smiled. "Don't look at me like that. I'm nervous enough as it is. This whole thing seems insane. I'm still wondering why I got the job." Valeria rolled her eyes. "Here we go again. You'll be terrific, super, magnificent! I couldn't think of a job that would suit you better. It's great. And anyway, it's just for a while. I'd be having fun if I were you." "But why did he give me the job? I don't know anything about restaurant management. We're talking about a firstrate nightclub, here. You wouldn't believe the amount of money invested in this place. You would think they would have hired a professional." "If you say that again, I'm going to kill you. You have a college degree, you're beautiful, you don't need anything else." "Oh, thank you," Alana said with amused sarcasm. "You're welcome," Valeria said in the same tone. "Anyway, you didn't know anything about restaurant management. You do now. You should, after all Victor's training. How many weeks has it been now?" In spite herself, Alana nodded. "Okay, okay." True. Victor had been there with her, training her, helping her, advising her. He was thirty-five, and all of his adult life he had worked in restaurants and nightclubs. During the last three weeks, they had worked together from morning till evening, going over the decoration, the lighting, the menus, the costumes. Talking with the waiters, telling them how they should apply their make-up, wear their costumes, showing them how they 19

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should speak, walk, behave. Not only for the restaurant but also the nightclub. He had behaved with the care and patience of an older brother and she would always be grateful to him. "What's happening to you? This is not like you. You're always sure of yourself. Too sure of yourself, if you ask me. These past few weeks you seem different." Alana had told Valeria she'd had trouble sleeping. She had told her she had been having dreams, strange dreams. But she had not told her what the dreams were about. They were used to telling each other their most intimate fantasies. But these dreams ... well, were somehow too private, too weird. They were her secret. Of course, Valeria had questioned her about them, but Alana had averted her eyes and said she could never remember their content, which at least was partially true. As if she had been reading her thoughts, Valeria said, "Does this anxiety have anything to do with the dreams?" Damn. Her pulse raced. "What? No, why do you say that? I'm not getting enough sleep, that's all. I told you I never remember the dreams." "That's strange for someone who usually has such vivid dreams." Just a hint of suspicion in her voice. "Yes. Very strange," Alana calmly said, giving her best performance and not falling for the bait. For a second they stared at each other. Then Valeria said, "You were making noises last night." Alana was momentarily stunned. "What?" 20

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"I heard you making noises, moaning. I was too sleepy to get up and take a look, but I heard you." "What do you mean, I was moaning?" Valeria laughed. "Moaning. You know. Moaning." She dramatized this a bit too loudly, and the people sitting at the next table turned their heads to look at them. Alana flushed, stirring uncomfortably in her seat. "There's nothing to be ashamed of, my little twin soul." "Valeria! You're making this up!" "It's true, I swear it." "Tell me the truth!" "What's the big deal? I suppose you had one of those dreams last night, one of the ones you can't remember?" Valeria teased. "No, I didn't," Alana lied, suddenly annoyed. "And stop talking to me in that patronizing tone. And don't call me your little twin soul again. In case you forgot it, I am the older one." Never mind that she was only three weeks older than Valeria. "Oh, I forgot. Would you ever find it in your heart to forgive me?" Alana gave her a malevolent smile. Then she lifted her glass and took a sip. "My God, are we moody today! My last intention is to get you angry. Today of all days. I brought you here to celebrate. But I can sense your transformation in the air. It's like poison gas. When you get in a bad mood I can smell it, I swear." "You know what your problem is? You swear to much," Alana said. 21

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Valeria laughed, patting Alana's hand. "Try to relax, will you? Don't you remember when they first hired me at the firm? I couldn't eat or sleep for a week. Everything will go great tonight, you'll see. Do you want to make a bet?" "No, I don't want to make any bet. I just want tonight to be over." But in fact she wasn't thinking about tonight. She was thinking about what Valeria had said about the moaning. And about how aroused she had awoken this morning, sweating, her throat parched, her pulse throbbing in her temples. "Valeria," Alana said, her voice lower and more confidential. "Was I really ... What's wrong?" "Don't turn your head now, but there are two guys over there who are staring at us." "Where?" "Behind you, the last table. And they're not that badlooking either," Valeria mischievously said, pretending not to look at them. Alana turned her head to glance at them. One of them smiled, lifting his wine glass to her. They were handsome in an office-executive kind of way. Alana scowled at them, then turned to Valeria. "I hate when they do that. Why don't they let us eat in peace?" "I know. They're cute, though." Valeria glanced at them and smiled. She was enjoying this. She always did. "No, Valeria, please," Alana urged, suddenly panicked. "They're going to come over to our table, like last time. And you remember how it ended up. They were a couple of arrogant jerks." 22

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"Maybe these aren't arrogant jerks." "I'm not in the mood." "You know what your problem is?" she said, mimicking Alana. "You're never in the mood." "Oh, shut up." Valeria pouted playfully. She looked lovely, clad in an elegant navy-blue suit, her face expertly made up, her thick blond hair falling sleek and straight down her shoulders, perfectly even bangs covering her forehead and brows. Wherever they went they always got attention from men. The redhead and the blonde. Are you sisters? No, twin souls.... And Valeria loved the attention, much more than Alana did. Valeria was a natural flirt, with her angelic big brown eyes and sweet smile. During her four years at the university she'd had a long line of boyfriends. She would jump from one relationship to another with no regrets, in a very pragmatic, cold-blooded manner. Now Valeria was seeing someone at her firm, a married man she referred to as "The Pirate." Just as Alana had her ghosts and witches and demons, Valeria had her pirates. On the other hand, Alana had never had much success with men. She'd had a few boyfriends, but there was always something missing in the relationships. She was easily bored, annoyed by them. She didn't even enjoy their caresses. In the end she always drove them off before the relationship could progress beyond a few kisses. She knew she was unrealistic and demanding, waiting for the perfect kind of man to sweep her off her feet. But she couldn't help feeling 23

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old-fashioned about it. She wanted to fall in love, and she wished the first time to be perfect. Over lunch the conversation turned to safer subjects. Alana talked about the restaurant, giving Valeria a preview of what to expect that night. It was going to be an event, and members of the press had been invited. Alana enjoyed most describing the menu, which would offer dishes like Dracula's Steak and Virgin Sacrifice Potatoes. Valeria laughed. "Virgin Sacrifice Potatoes?" "Ridiculous, isn't it? My idea." "I know." She gave Alana a knowing look. Alana raised a brow. "And I suppose you're the expert of experts?" "A lot more than you, that's for sure. I'll be happy to give you a few theoretical lessons." "It's not theoretical lessons that I need," Alana said, popping a little carrot stick into her mouth. Then, to change the subject, she added, "How's your 'Pirate' doing?" "He's fine. We haven't been together for more than a week. It's so hard seeing him every day at the office, and not being able to touch him. We just look at each other, eat each other with our eyes. We'll be together tonight. He'll come with me to the opening." Valeria sighed. "Don't look at me with those sad puppy eyes." "I'm not doing anything." "I'm not going to tell you anything anymore. You know what you're getting into." "I'm only trying to enjoy life, make the best of it," Valeria said, a wan smile playing on her lips. "We're pain and 24

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pleasure machines..." she began tauntingly, mimicking Alana and her fervent philosophical arguments. "Don't give me Nietzsche. I know about Nietzsche. He was a madman." Then her expression turned softer, her voice gentler. "What's going to happen when his wife finds out? She will find out. They all eventually do. What's going to happen to the kids? To you? I don't want you to get hurt. And you will get hurt." "I'm a survivor. Besides, I'm in control of the situation." "Stop the cool act. This is not like your past conquests. This time you're more involved than you think you are. And I'm going to tell you something else. Those kids will get hurt most of all." Valeria rolled her eyes, obviously mortified. She looked like an impetuously stubborn child being reprimanded by a parent. "Don't go into 'Cosmic Justice' again. It bores me to hell. Things like this have been happening since the beginning of time, and they will continue to happen." She paused, and wiped her mouth with a napkin. "I'm not saying I'm proud of it. I feel guilty, too, for the kids." "I know you do." "But what do you want me to do? Maybe my guilt isn't strong enough. Maybe I don't have morals. And I'm selfish, I know I'm selfish." She threw Alana a piercing look, then gulped down the rest of her wine. "No, you're not. You're giving yourself completely to him. You wait for him. You see him only on those occasions when he sees fit. He's a lucky bastard, with a young and beautiful mistress falling head over heels for him, and a family who 25

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doesn't suspect a thing. Every man's fantasy. He doesn't make you any promises. He cannot offer you any plans for the future." "I take what I want from him. And I'm not head over heels for him. Far from it. The least I want is complications in my life. I don't ask for any future with him. I don't want a future with him. Get that into your thick head, will you? I told you, I'm in complete control of the situation." Alana nodded, weighing Valeria's words in her mind. She sighed, suddenly overcome by a keen urge to smoke. "It's just so physical," Valeria said. "I just ... I can't control myself. The passion is so strong, so totally commanding. You know what I mean." In spite of herself, Alana had to laugh. It amazed her, the way Valeria was. At times so cool and down-to-earth, at other times such a slave of the senses, lecherous. Alana couldn't help feeling a twinge of jealousy. All of a sudden the image of that long pointed nail flashed into her mind. Just the memory of it was enough to make her heart race, her stomach tighten, her face flush. "I just get so restless sometimes," Valeria went on. "I feel like grabbing whatever life offers me. In a few years we'll be old ladies, no one will look at us. And we'll be sick, and we'll suffer. These are the best years of our lives, and I don't intend to throw them away. And you should understand that, better than anybody else," Valeria said. She looked right into Alana's dark eyes, and held her gaze for a moment. "Yes ... I do," Alana said, wincing at the allusion to her mother's death. 26

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"That's why I hate to see you alone. You hate socializing. You look at men as if they were the plague. The only thing which seems to make you happy is your books and classical music. And don't tell me that to be alone is better than to be in bad company. You don't deserve to be alone. God, you're missing a hell of a lot, Alana." Valeria placed her knife and fork on the plate and shifted in her seat. The wine, the passion in her voice had flushed her cheeks. "But the problem is you don't want to do anything to change it, either. Like I said, these are the best years of our lives." Alana snorted, somewhat hurt by Valeria's words. But she had to admit Valeria was right, in a way. She remained stubbornly quiet, though, her hand fiddling with the fork, her eyes cast down. Valeria sighed. "Now I truly did it, didn't I?" "Are you finished with that steak, Valeria?" Alana said coolly, looking up at her. "Victor must be waiting for me at the restaurant. We still have a million things to do before the opening." She signalled to the waiter. "Always good at changing the subject," Valeria muttered. She threw her napkin onto the table and leaned back against the chair, folding her arms across her chest. "Sometimes I wonder, Alana," she said. "What are you waiting for? Who are you waiting for?"

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CHAPTER 2 Walking into La Cueva del Vampiro seemed like stepping into a high-budget horror film. A lush, expensive burgundy carpet covered the floors. Gruesome stalactites hung from the ceiling, and through the crevices, shafts of red light filtered down like bloody shimmering knives. Round slabs of stone, decorated with candle-lit skulls in the center, stood as tables. All around, spider webs twined around the gothic candelabra and skeletons rested propped up against the imitation stone walls. The waiters, with their frightful make-up and costumes—some as vampires, some as zombies, some as Frankenstein, some as werewolves—added to the total effect. Alana, too, had taken extra care in transforming herself for tonight. She had brushed her hair until it glowed like a red satin cape down her back. She had spent nearly half an hour applying her makeup: silvery pale foundation and powder, black eye shadow and liner, burgundy-red lipstick. After putting on her costume she had spent a long time admiring the result in the mirror. She loved her burgundy medieval gown, which had a low neckline and was snug at the waist. The sleeves fell wide and loose down her arms, like the wings of a bat. The skirt, smooth and sleek, flowed down to her mid-calves and revealed the sensual curve of her hips. Around her neck she wore an ornate brass choker with the face of a Cobra snake—mouth open exposing fangs—in the center. On her feet were burgundy velvet, high-healed pumps. 28

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Now and then she caught an admiring glance from a man sipping his wine or eating his dinner. Thrilled, she tried not to lower her eyes or appear shy. She had forgotten all about the dreams, about the creature, about questioning why she had been hired for the job. There was nothing strange about this place. How could there be anything strange about it, when people obviously enjoyed themselves so much? It was incredibly fun, to watch their fascinated faces when they saw her and spoke to her, to watch them grimacing and hear them laughing when they looked at the skeletons around them or read the menu. The opening had begun at eight o'clock, and since then, the restaurant had swarmed with customers. It was almost ten o'clock now. Although her only responsibility was the restaurant, Victor, managing as always, had advised her that it might be better for publicity if she also hung around the nightclub tonight. She couldn't keep herself from smiling. She had done a good job, and now she basked in the rewards of her hard work. Bending forward over a table to recommend some of the specialties to a couple, Alana lifted her eyes and met Victor's gaze from across the dimly-lit room. He smiled, spontaneously, approvingly. She smiled back, letting him know with her smile and with a nod of her head that everything was all right. What was he doing here? He was supposed to be at the nightclub. But yes, he had told her he would pass by a couple of times to check on things. He wore the classic Dracula costume. Black wig complete with widow's 29

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peak, white-powdered face, black lips, black dinner jacket and flowing black cape. Oddly, he seemed more attractive with the Dracula costume. Just as men stared at Alana, women stared at him. Amazing. Weren't people bored, fed up with these ancient, frightful creatures? Even after all these years, Dracula still captured imaginations. At least in Puerto Rico, anyway. Alana walked over to the entrance to greet more customers, and she saw Valeria and Miguel "the Pirate" waiting in line. Even though they were late, Alana's eyes lit up. "My God, Alana, you look super!" Valeria said. It was the first time she had seen Alana wearing the costume. Alana would not let her see it. She had wished tonight to be a total surprise. "Where have you been? You promised you'd be here at eight," Alana said. "Don't get angry at Valeria. It was my fault," Miguel said. "We had to ... stop somewhere first." Valeria and Miguel gave each other a knowing, lustful look. Not an obvious look, but one that made Alana guess what they had been up to. "You really do look fabulous, Alana," he added. "Yes, fabulous," Valeria said. "Thank you," Alana tried to swallow her disappointment. She refused to understand their desperation. Maybe she was being selfish, but she couldn't help it. It hurt her that Valeria had gone off somewhere to make love with him when she had promised she was going to come early to the opening in the 30

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first place. Couldn't she have waited until after the opening? "Follow me, I'll get you a table." Valeria and Miguel followed her across the crowded room. "This place is fantastic," Valeria said, looking around her as she walked. "Look at those skeletons. They look so authentic. Are they real?" "I doubt it," Miguel said. "You can examine them better from here," Alana said, showing them to a corner table placed beside two skeletons. "I bet you have been saving this table just for us," Valeria said, sitting down and looking appreciatively at the skeletons. "Hardly," Alana said. "All the tables have been filled since eight o'clock. I guess it's your lucky night." She had, in fact, been saving this table for them. Miguel examined the candlelit skull on the table. "But this looks real," he said, bewildered, squinting at the skull and touching it with his fingers. "Nothing false dwells in this cave," Alana said in a mocking, deeply mysterious tone. "No, no, I'm serious," Miguel said. "Are they real?" "Of course they are. Don't you see?" Valeria said. "I'll let you decide that for yourselves," Alana said. She handed them the menus. Their covers showed the words La Cueva del Vampiro in leaking red ink, like words unevenly written with fresh blood. Inside, the names of the food and the prices were written gothic style. They studied the menu for a while.

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Valeria laughed, delighted. "Deadly Mushrooms in Slimy Maggot Sauce? Phantasm Ice Cream? Immortal Salad? I can tell this all came from your head, Alana." "Who else but me—Alana, the Vampire Countess?" Valeria reached out and held Alana's hand, giving it a little squeeze. "You see, I told you it would be a great success. I'm so happy for you. Are you happy now?" "Don't I look happy?" "Yes, you look happy. But with you I never know for sure." "Tonight I feel very happy." "Then live the moment to the fullest," Valeria said, giving her hand another squeeze, this time harder, almost painfully. Then she reached to touch the choker around Alana's neck. Her index finger stroke the cobra's head, the fangs. "Mmm ... I love this. Where did you get it?" Alana seemed startled. Her hands went up to her neck. "This? Unusual, isn't it? I don't know. It came in the box with the rest of the costume." "Victor chose the costumes?" Valeria said. "The old man who gave me the job supplied them. I already told you that." "It looks old," Miguel said. "I mean, it looks genuinely old." Alana nodded. "Hmm." "Maybe it is. All these skulls and candelabra and torchlights are supposed to be genuine. That's what Victor told you, didn't he?" Valeria said. "Yes. I asked him about it, and that's what he said. Everything was supplied to him, though. He doesn't have any idea where they came from." 32

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"Such mystery," Miguel said, amused. "I think it's all for publicity." Alana realized Victor was signaling her from across the room. "Listen, I have to go now. The werewolf will take your order. You'll come with me to the club later, right?" "Don't worry," Miguel said. "This time we won't let you down." "We wouldn't miss it for the world," Valeria said. "Great. I'll see you later then. And Miguel, everything here is real." When Alana joined Victor, he told her, "Congratulations, Alana. You've managed wonderfully. Just as I thought you would." "Thank you. You know I could never have done it without your help." "Let's just say I'm your typically nice vampire." He smiled, glancing at his watch. "It's ten-thirty. I'm taking off to the club, okay? Can you handle it from here?" "Sure, go ahead." "Are you tired?" "A little. I guess I'm more excited than tired. But my feet hurt. These shoes are too high. Usually I don't wear shoes like this." She made a face, as though her feet were killing her. "My hair is itching like hell under this damn wig. Anyway, I have to go. See you later. You won't believe the nightclub. It's filled with yummy humans reeking of blood." After giving her a theatrical Dracula grin, he walked off. 33

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Alana chuckled. Then she sighed, looking around the room. The waiters joked with the customers, carried food trays from one place to another. They had done a good job. No problems with the orders, no spilled drinks, no dropped trays. They worked hard to make the first day a success. Even though the air conditioning was on, they seemed to be perspiring under their heavy make-up. Alana, too, was perspiring. She still had a long night ahead of her. But she had told Valeria the truth. She was happy. She made another tour around the tables, speaking here and there with the customers. All of them seemed to love the food and the costumes, but more than anything they seemed intrigued about the décor. Are these skulls real? They are, of course they are. Are these skeletons real? They are real, too, every single one of them.. Who is the owner of the restaurant? What's his name? To tell you the truth, I don't know. I only know one thing. He only comes out after sunset. Soft laughter. **** At midnight, Alana turned on the CLOSED sign. Although there were only two tables empty, the rest of the people were at the end of their dinners, having dessert or drinking coffee. The restaurant was a hit. Several reporters from the city's most important newspapers were here, and they had been extremely pleased. Favorable articles would appear in the Sunday editions. 34

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Alana went over to Valeria's table. "You have been standing and walking around all night long, Alana. Aren't you tired?" Valeria said, genuinely concerned. "You'll rest now at the club, okay? We haven't been able to speak all night." "So what? You live together, don't you? Tomorrow you can speak all you want," Miguel said, taking Valeria's hand between his and kissing her palm. Valeria smiled, bit her lower lip. Biting her lower lip was a habit of hers. It made her look cute and childish and sexy. And Valeria knew it. She knew her weapons just like any officer in the army knew his. It made Alana want to smack her—of love and irritation, truly want to smack her. Valeria was tipsy. Her brown eyes shimmered wildly above the candle-lit skull. Her cheeks were glowing. Alana loved it. Valeria always turned ridiculous, but happy and amusing. A bit annoying, but the perfect harmless drunk. Not a bit like Alana herself, who got nostalgic and gloomy; at times aggressive and even cruel. "How many Black Russians have you had tonight?" Alana asked. "Let me see..." Valeria said playfully, counting her fingers. "Thirty! No, no, don't be silly. I only had four." "Actually, I'm dying for a rum and coke," Alana said, trying to flex her toes inside her shoes. Her feet were truly killing her. "God, I feel like a stuffed pig," Miguel said, rubbing his stomach. "It's already midnight. What do you think, Alana? Can we go to the club now?" 35

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Most of the customers were asking for their bills. "Why don't you go ahead? I'll meet you there in a little while. Just tell the guy at the door your names. I already told him about you. You won't have to wait." Out on the street stood a long line of people waiting to get inside the nightclub. Most of them were nicely dressed, young professionals between the ages of twenty and thirty from good families, reeking of money. **** On her way to the nightclub, admiring the decor, Alana pictured in her mind how the place must look to the new customers. LA CUEVA DEL VAMPIRO. The red gothic letters flickered on and off in the dark dead-end street. Once inside one found a dark entrance hall with passionately disturbing music— Bach's "Toccata and Fugue in D Minor"—coming out of hidden speakers. Next were two ancient, heavy wooden doors with their respective signs, one leading to the restaurant and the other to the nightclub. To enter the nightclub one had to follow a dark narrow corridor until a final heavy wooden door led into the dancing hall. The nightclub was more or less a replica of the restaurant. Imitation-stone walls, spider webs, skulls, skeletons, candelabra, monster waiters. The bar, designed in the shape of an extremely long sarcophagus, truly added to the effect . In the center of the room was the dance floor, surrounded by stone-slab tables decorated with candle-lit skulls and monster heads with lit-up eyes. 36

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The same dim red shafts of light came down from stalactites, baleful, portentous. The waiters came from another world, from an underworld. They brought exotic drinks. And the music—right now U2's melody in which the lead singer promised to hold you, kiss you, thrill you and kill you—came out at full volume, deafening to the senses. Lots of cigarette smoke, sudden empty laughs, giggles. Disguised kisses, strokes. A faint smell of incense, dark and foreign, caressing to the nostrils. And in the center, dancing bodies, turning, swirling, undulating, tight young bodies with the dusky scent of sweaty flesh. All of it a surrealist painting out of Salvador Dali's imagination. **** "No, no, I don't want to dance now. You go ahead," Alana said. It seemed to her hours had passed since she had joined Valeria and Miguel. "Come on," Valeria insisted. "We can dance all together. The three of us." "Valeria, mi amor," Miguel said. "She says she doesn't want to dance. Don't you see she's tired?" "I'm thirsty. I'll order another rum and Coke," Alana said. "But we love to dance with each other. Don't we, Alana? You promise me the next dance then, okay?" Valeria said. 37

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Alana rolled her eyes skyward. Valeria loved to whine when drunk. Alana herself was getting tipsy. She had had two rum and Cokes on an empty stomach. But she wasn't hungry. Tonight she had been too nervous to eat anything. "Not now. Later maybe," Alana said, distracted, drumming her fingers to the music. She turned to Miguel, who, in spite of having had two or three beers, seemed sober. "My God, Miguel, dance with her. Take her, do anything. Just make sure she doesn't collapse in the middle of the dance floor." Miguel nodded, understanding. He got up from the table and took Valeria by the hand. He really seemed something of the pirate, with his beard and moustache and his mischievous brown eyes. Valeria pouted. "Very funny," she said to Alana as Miguel led her off by the hand. Alana shook her head, smiling. She watched them disappear into the bustling dance floor. She looked down at her drink. A little liquid remained at the bottom of the glass where the ice had melted. She took one last sip. Tracing the round edge of her glass with her fingertip, she stared across the room, thoughtful. They had fallen into one another's webs. Physically, mainly physically. But talking to them, Alana had noticed some sort of emotional or spiritual attachment in their relationship as well. That much she could tell. And she didn't like it. She didn't like it at all. On the other hand, maybe she was only being old fashioned. Valeria often accused her of being a moralistic fool. 38

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So the Pirate was married. So what? What was the big deal? These things happened all the time, especially in a depraved Latin city like this. But Alana couldn't help feeling the way she did. It was wrong. It had to be. Integrity. Morality. Loyalty. These virtues had totally disappeared. They didn't have a meaning anymore. Suddenly an intense feeling of loss overwhelmed her. The alcohol was having its usual depressing effect on her. She knew if she kept drinking, she would get worst, and yet she wanted another drink, desired to get perfectly drunk. What was wrong with her? Was she insane? She had had a successful night. Only minutes ago she had been pleased, cheerful, exhilarated. How horrible to have such drastic mood swings, to feel so despondent without knowing why. She signaled the zombie waiter and ordered another rum and Coke. For a moment she stared at the dancing couples, at the flashing red lights above them. Her eyes scanned the room, moving slowly from one table to the other. Then she saw the face. An alluring face, solemn and brooding, with slanted dark brows and penetrating deep-set eyes and a generous sensual mouth. It was framed in a mass of wavy dark hair, and the skin had a strange luster, it seemed to glow in the semidarkness of the room. Such an unusual face, severe and melancholic at the same time. And it was staring straight back at her! Alana held the stranger's gaze for a second, stiffening, realizing not only that he stared at her, but that he had been 39

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staring at her for some time. She averted her eyes, a natural reaction. For a second she looked down at the candle-lit skull on the table, at the tiny flickering flame. Then, almost involuntarily, she looked back at him. He was still staring at her. Alana's heart skipped. She stared back, breathless. It was not the fact that a man was staring at her, for many men stared at her in public places. No, it was not that. It was the type of face and the way that he looked at her that stunned her—as if he knew all about her sadness, her loneliness, her deepest fears. And suddenly she had a haunted feeling, as if all the morbid immensity of her emotions, past and present, stood reflected in that face. She held his gaze, looking straight into his deep-set eyes, until she felt dizzy. Oddly, it felt as if they had been watching each other for hours, when in fact only seconds had passed. "Enjoy your drink," the zombie waiter said. Alana looked up, startled. The waiter bent forward to serve her the drink, blocking the bewitching face. "Thanks," she said, reaching for it. The cold glass felt soothing against her sweaty palms. After the waiter walked off, Alana looked again towards the stranger. But he was no longer there. She looked around the room, keenly disappointed, but he had vanished. "Great, now I'm hallucinating," she muttered to herself, softly shaking her head. Her hands went through her hair, shoving it away from her face. Then she brought the cold glass to her dry lips and drank. 40

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After a while Valeria and Miguel rejoined her at the table. Miguel lit a cigarette while Valeria signaled the waiter for another Black Russian. "My throat is parched!" Valeria said. She turned to Miguel and kissed him full on the mouth, glancing sideways at Alana. Then she pushed Miguel away and laughed. Alana didn't look away, but her thoughts were elsewhere. The stranger had reminded her of a trip she once took with her mother to the Middle East, of a painting of angels. She couldn't put the finger on why the face and the trip were connected, but... "Hellooooo!" Valeria said, waving her hand in front of Alana's face. "Where are you? You look miles away." Alana blinked, snapping back to the present. "Why don't you try and read my mind?" she taunted. Valeria grinned, ignoring the mocking note in her friend's voice. "Okay. Look deep into my eyes. Concentrate." Alana went along with Valeria, containing a smile. Her heavily black-rimmed eyes locked themselves into Valeria's. Her pale face turned grave, pensive. Miguel looked from one to the other, amused. "We used to read each other's minds when we were little. Didn't she tell you?" Alana said. "Quiet," Valeria said, her big brown eyes round and luminous. There was a silence. "I don't know, Alana. You're not opening up to me. I see a heavy wall between us." "You're joking, right?" Miguel said. He took a long drag from his cigarette and let out a thick cloud of smoke. 41

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The waiter came with the Black Russian and Valeria reached for it and took a long draught. She licked her lips, smiling at Alana. But she was clearly disappointed. "Well, it didn't always work, remember? What were you thinking about?" "About a face," Alana said. "Can I have a cigarette, Miguel?" "You smoke? I thought you didn't smoke," Miguel said, passing her a cigarette and lighting it for her. Valeria cut in. "She doesn't." "I don't," Alana said. "Unless she's feeling..." Valeria began. "Unless I'm restless," Alana said. Miguel nodded, smiling, looking from one to the other. "You know, I never noticed it before, but you two look alike." "We could be twins, couldn't we?" Valeria said. "Fraternal twins, anyway." "We are twins," Alana said. She felt positively giddy, she could feel the blood gushing inside her veins, flaming with alcohol. Her limbs were starting to feel as if they weren't attached to her body, but she still had complete control over her mind. How the hell was she going to drive home? Well, she wasn't. She wasn't that stupid. She was going to ask Miguel and Valeria to drop her off at the apartment. "Listen, Miguel. I've been watching you tonight. I like the fact that you've only had three beers. That's great. You're a responsible guy. That's just wonderful." Her voice was soft, gently taunting, 42

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like music. Was it the alcohol in her blood what made her say that, or did she mean it? She wasn't sure. Miguel seemed flattered. "If I were home right now I wouldn't mind finishing up two six-packs in an hour. I love beer. But when I have to drive, that's different. I'm not planning on dying on the road." If you were home right now you'd be with your wife, you bastard, Alana thought. "I told you how wonderful he was," Valeria said, stealing the cigarette from Alana's fingers and taking a puff. She nestled her head against the crook of Miguel's arm, took another puff from the cigarette and gave Alana an inquisitive look. "What face?" "What?" Alana said, though she knew very well what Valeria had asked. "You said you were thinking about a face. What face?" Alana shrugged. "Oh, nothing. Just a face I saw across the room. A very ... unusual face." "What do you mean, a face? Was it a man or a woman?" Valeria said. Alana let out a quick short laugh. "Oh, a man ... most definitely a man." "Then why do you say you saw a face instead of a man?" Valeria said. "I don't know. It was very strange, as if there wasn't anything else in the room except for that face. I didn't even see what he was wearing, I didn't even see his chest or shoulders. It was just a face, a luminous face in the darkness, staring at me," Alana said. 43

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"That's spooky, Alana," Miguel said. "Maybe you saw one of the waiters." "Don't worry, Miguel. If you knew Alana a little better, you wouldn't be surprised. She loves living in a fantasy world. An interesting-looking man was looking at her, that's all. So tell me, Alana, was he handsome?" Valeria asked. "Try and read my mind again," Alana said viciously, suddenly annoyed by Valeria's matter-of-factness. "Come on, Alana. Don't get mad," Valeria said, pouting. "I was going to ask you the next dance." "Go to hell," Alana sweetly said. Valeria looked at Miguel and shrugged. "She's like this. She gets mad very easily when she's drunk. I guess it's all that hot Mediterranean blood in her veins, coming from her Italian and Spanish ancestors." "What about you, my love?" Miguel said to Valeria. "Where did you get that beautiful blond hair?" "Most probably her ancestors were Nazis," Alana said. "My God, now she's going to blame me for the murder of six million Jews. Yeah, who knows, maybe I do have Nazi blood in me. How in the world would I know? How in the world would anybody know? I bet not even God knows." She downed the rest of her drink. Then she laughed. Alana knew better than to expand on the subject of Valeria's birth. She could see through Valeria's laughter—the hidden darkness, the coldness. There was a short silence. Miguel frowned, obviously intrigued and ignorant of Valeria's childhood. 44

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"How long are you two going to be here?" Alana quickly said, giving him no chance of asking any more questions. "I don't feel up to driving. I was going to ask you to drop me off at the apartment. Is that okay?" "Sure, no problem," Miguel said. "What about your car? Isn't it dangerous to leave it out there all night?" "I'll have to take the risk. Better to risk my car than my life," Alana said. "You want to go now? It's not even three o'clock yet," Valeria protested. "Let's dance." "Why don't you save some of that energy for later, my love?" Miguel told Valeria, lifting her hand to his mouth and brushing it with his lips. He whispered something into her ear, making Valeria squirm and giggle. "Stop it!" Valeria said, laughing. "Alana, you wouldn't believe how indecent this man really is." But all of a sudden she stood still, entranced by the music, and said, "Listen, Alana. It's our favorite song! Let's dance! Please, please, please, let's dance!" Alana was tempted, but she shook her head. "I'm tired," she protested. "So what?" Valeria said. "She's tired, mi amor. Leave her alone," Miguel said. "Don't be ridiculous. I don't care if she's tired!" Alana laughed. "Oh Lord. No creature on earth can insist so much." But to placate Valeria, she added, "The next fastpaced song will be ours. And after we dance we'll get out of here and you'll drop me off at the apartment, okay? I want to 45

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sleep and..." She stopped herself. She had been about to say dream. I want to sleep and dream. "And, what?" Valeria said. "And get rid of your stupid, unbearable company once and for all," Alana said. The three of them danced the next song, and the next, and the next. And while Alana danced her eyes searched for the mysterious man. She desired so much to see the face that she willed herself to see it, to the point that her temples began to throb. But to no avail. She walked out of the club feeling weak and forsaken, drunkenly telling herself that if she could only see the face she would instantly feel better. By the time they sat in the car the sudden realization hit her brain like a powerful blow to her skull. It didn't make sense at all. Not at all. But somehow she knew that the creature in her dreams and the man with the mysterious face were one and the same. She leaned her head against the backseat of Miguel's car and shut her eyes. Yes, yes, yes. I want to sleep and dream.

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CHAPTER 3 By the time Alana finished having breakfast the next morning, she had decided that last night's conclusions were ridiculous, if not downright impossible. How could the strange creature of her dreams and the man with the mysterious face be one and the same? She had gotten drunk last night, and had let her imagination run wild. She had thought things she desired to be real. But even this she couldn't understand. Why would she desire the two to be the same? She poured herself another cup of coffee and went out to the balcony, stretching herself out on the lounge chair. Thank God she had not mixed drinks last night; otherwise she would be sick now. As long as she didn't mix, her stomach didn't rebel. And thank God there was no sun to sting her eyes, which felt like frail, skinned grapes inside their sockets. The morning had been gentle, had welcomed her with grey skies and cool air and a light rain. Since their balcony was covered by the balcony above it, the rain didn't touch her but only tickled her feet deliciously. With a sudden giddiness, she thought about last night's dream. Panther. There had been no creature this time, no vampire, but a big black panther with shimmering yellow eyes and deadly curved fangs. She didn't remember anything else; the image overflowed her brain. 47

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While sipping her coffee, Alana heard Valeria going into the kitchen. This was a ritual on Saturday and Sunday mornings: get a cup of coffee, stretch out lazily on the balcony, and talk. "I guess we won't be going to the beach today," Valeria said, appearing on the balcony, taking the cup to her lips and gazing at the rain. Like Alana, she also loved dark rainy days. She sat down next to Alana on the other lounge chair. "You feeling okay?" "Uh-huh." "That bad, huh?" Valeria said. "Me too. Was I terribly impossible last night?" "Nah, just your regular irritating self." Valeria smiled. "You fell asleep in the car. We had to drag you upstairs and into bed. Do you remember?" "Of course I remember. I was not that drunk. What time did Miguel leave?" "I don't know. Close to four, I think." "What does he tell his wife?" Alana said. "He told her he was going to a poker game. His friends cover for him." "I think he's falling in love with you," Alana said with a slight grimace of disgust. Valeria gave her a little guilty smile. "You think? No, I don't think so." Alana winced. "Damn, my head hurts. Don't you have a headache?" "Of course I do. We overdid it last night." "Can you rub my shoulders a little? They feel as if they're on fire," Alana said, sitting up and turning her back to Valeria. 48

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She didn't wait for an answer. Valeria rarely said no, but even when she did, Alana always bribed her somehow. Valeria put her coffee down and began to rub Alana's shoulders. Alana moaned, tightly shutting her eyes. She could very well fall asleep, right here, sitting up. "My God, it feels so good! Please, a little bit more," she begged. "Okay, but later you rub mine, too." "Yes, yes, okay." For a few more minutes Valeria massaged Alana's shoulders. Then Alana, feeling deliciously groggy, turned around to ease the tension in Valeria's shoulders. "Do it better, Alana. Harder. I was not doing it like this to you. You always trick me like this," Valeria protested. "My head, Valeria. Don't whine." Inside in the living room, the intercom rang. Alana and Valeria gave each other a look. Instinctively, Alana glanced at her watch. It was almost one o'clock, and it was unusual for the intercom to ring on Sundays. "I'll go and check," Alana said, standing up. "Saved by the bell, but you owe me a back rub," Valeria said, following Alana into the living room. Through the intercom a young male voice announced it was a flower delivery. Alana pressed the button and told him to come up. "Flowers?" Alana said, bewildered. "Miguel, maybe?" Valeria shook her head. "That's not his style. Why do you assume right away that they're for me? Why didn't you ask who they were for?" 49

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Alana let out a snort. "I don't know. You're the only love goddess around here." "Something tells me they're for you," Valeria said, trying to control a smile. "Who the hell is going to send me flowers? My uncle?" They were for Alana. A lovely arrangement of plump, red roses. After tipping the delivery boy and closing the door, they rushed to the living room sofa to read the note. Sorry I missed the opening. Lots of success in your new job. I'll see you in two weeks. Don't bother calling me. I'll be camping in the Arizona desert with friends. Love and kisses, Humberto. "You see, I told you they were for you," Valeria said. Alana smiled. "What a wonderful surprise. That's so nice of him. But how did he know about my new job, about the opening? I haven't spoken to him for two months ... why are you looking at me like that?" Valeria burst out laughing. Alana's eyes widened with surprise. "You! You spoke to him! You told him?" "Okay, guilty of all charges," Valeria said, raising her hand as if in court. "He called a week ago to check how we were doing, and I told him about your new job and about the opening night. He wanted to call later and speak to you, but I told him it would be nicer if he surprised you with flowers. He'll fly here in two weeks, anyway, and we'll have a nice big get-together." "So he's still in the States? But he graduated two months ago. That's the last time I spoke to him." 50

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"You know how he is. He told me he plans to rest this fall semester, then start his master's at the end of January." "So the flowers were your idea?" Alana turned to give Valeria a kiss and a hug. "That's sweet of you, thank you." Valeria swallowed, her big brown eyes moistening. "So he'll be coming in two weeks then," Alana said, smelling the roses. Then she raised a brow at Valeria. "Like old times again, huh?" Humberto had been their closest friend since their days of primary school. How many times had he pulled their hair when they were little? And how many times had Alana and Valeria fought each other over him? He was the first boy they had ever kissed and they played the switching game, in and out of love with him until at last the three had settled into being the greatest friends. The naughty things they had done together! Rebelling against teachers, torturing other kids, cheating during tests. Even when they went their separate ways after high school, they always kept in touch. "Valeria, did you and him..." She had asked Valeria this question a hundred times. "Sleep together? How many times have I told you no ?" Valeria replied, though there was a hint of dark playfulness in her voice. "I don't know. I don't know why I don't believe you. Everybody has secrets. Even though we're so close, we must have secrets. Maybe that's one of your little secrets."

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"That's not true," Valeria protested. "I don't keep any secrets from you. I always tell you everything. Speaking to you is like speaking to myself." Alana decided to let it pass. Sometimes silly conversations like this ended up in big illogical arguments. "All right, I believe you," she lied, fondly tousling Valeria's hair. But now Valeria seemed wounded. "So everybody must have secrets? This means that you have secrets." "It was just a statement. I didn't mean it personally." "Yes, yes, sure. Tell me, Alana. Do you keep secrets from me?" "No," Alana lied. "I always tell you everything, you know that." Though she was used to Valeria's vehemence, now and then it startled her. Even for twin souls, it was normal to have little secrets, wasn't it? And in the past she had caught Valeria in lies, little lies, just as she herself was lying now. "Well, we better get dressed now," Alana said, putting an end to the conversation. She stood up, cradling the roses in her arms. "We have to get the newspaper. I'd like to see what they wrote about the club. Then you have to drive me to the club to get my car." "If it's still there," Valeria said. "Yeah, let me put these roses in water." Alana walked over to the kitchen cabinet to look for a glass vase. Valeria stood up and followed her. Alana rinsed the vase and half-filled it with water, then she began to arrange the roses in the vase. A thorn stung one of her index fingers. She flinched back in pain. 52

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"Damn!" Alana said, clasping her injured finger with her other hand and watching as a ruby dot of blood formed on the tip. For an instant she seemed dazed, transfixed by the sight of her own blood. "Let me see," Valeria said, examining the finger. "That's why I hate roses. Oh, poor Alana! Does it hurt much?" "If you hate roses, why did you tell Humberto to send me some?" "I love roses; it's their darker side I hate. Don't be such a coward. Here," and she took the tip of Alana's finger into her mouth and sucked the blood. She threw Alana a strange thoughtful look, then she pulled the finger out of her mouth and said, "Remember the pact?" "Hmm," Alana said. It had been Alana's idea, after she'd seen it in a movie, and Valeria had been thrilled with the prospect. They had been fifteen at the time, and fascinated yet terrified by the ritual. With a needle they had gently punctured each other's thumbs, and their blood had joined, and they made the oath to always love and trust and help one another, and to never, never betray one another. The heaviness of the memory hung in the air for a moment. "Your blood is too salty," Valeria finally said, licking her lips. "How many times have I told you to cut down on salt?" "Are you crazy? And lose all that taste?" Alana said, and continued placing the roses into the vase. This time she was more careful. **** 53

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He watched her. From the darkness of the balcony he heard her slow sweet breathing and smelled the richness and innocence of her blood. Moving forward, he opened the sliding glass door and for a moment lingered there, admiring her beauty and listening to Bach. She had fallen asleep with the stereo on, very low, on the same classical music station. She had started doing this years ago, believing it made her sleep better. She had recorded all of her favorite classical melodies in one cassette, and very often she would put on this cassette in place of the station. Mozart, Vivaldi, Ravel, Beethoven. He admired her taste in music. He watched the rise and fall of her chest. Her splendid hair, so thick and long and wavy, possessed a very unusual hue under the faint light of the moon, like expensive brandy. Her brows arched high above her eyes, and her nose was small and her lips pink and full, as if they had been slightly bruised from too much kissing. Her features made him think of cats, or foxes, or raccoons, the animals he found the loveliest. Her skin was soft, with just the right amount of freckles on her nose and cheeks, like a slight sprinkle of cinnamon on vanilla pudding—the texture so soft, so pale against the black silk kimono she had fallen asleep wearing.... Alana, he called. She opened her eyes and looked at him. Alana. Come, my angel. 54

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She rose from the bed and moved to stand in front of him, and just as she had done years ago, she clasped her arms around his waist. Soon he was lost in her hair, relishing himself in its luscious human scent. He took a handful of her hair and brushed it with his lips, then curled a lock of it around his finger and pulled her face closer to him. She shuddered under his touch, and for a second he held his breath and shut his eyes. It was almost unbearable, this waiting. A waiting that was both physical and emotional, for just as much as he needed to possess her, he also needed to reveal himself to her, to talk to her without having to control her will or thoughts. But like a good lover—or hunter—he believed that foreplay was everything, and he loved the thrill of anticipation, he loved the little hunting games until the final climatic kill. In a sudden movement, he pulled the kimono off of her shoulders so that they were exposed and her arms lay imprisoned under the garment. She tilted her head back and moaned, and he bent and kissed her on one shoulder. His cool lips slowly moved up and down her throat, then to the soft curve of her jaw, his tongue moving languorously in and out of his mouth. He groaned, feeling her heart beating violently against him, a heart that was like the most magnificent treasure box, and that would soon be completely his. She pulled her arms out of the kimono and held him around the neck, burying her hands in his hair. Lifting her off the floor, he looked at her, a feral smile on his face. Then he hissed, exposing his deadly teeth. 55

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She threw her head back and pulled him down by the neck, arching her slender body against him. The artery pulsed and swelled under her pale skin like a flowing river. And with a sudden ferocity that surprised him, he buried his mouth in her neck and drank like a starved animal, as if wanting to bruise and shake the inner corners of her very soul. Then, clasped together in this tight lover's embrace, he began to twirl and swirl in the darkness, to waltz around and around. As if from another dimension, he could distantly hear Vivaldi's "Summer," one of his favorites, playing on the stereo. His beloved little angel. How he had always admired her taste in music! **** A few nights later, a little after three o'clock, Valeria awoke with a slight burning sensation in her stomach. She had had Mexican food for lunch, very hot and spicy, and always had trouble with her stomach whenever she ate it. Not that the midnight stomach pains taught her any lesson. I'll never eat that damn food again. But she had told herself this dozens of times before. She might as well face it: she was a slave to her body, and when her body wanted something, she gave it to it, be it men, food, drink, or clothes. Sitting up on the bed, she groaned and began massaging her stomach. The room was dark. She liked to sleep in complete darkness. She even drew the curtain at night to keep the moonlight away from her eyes.

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Valeria stood up and started toward the door. She would go to the kitchen and have some Pepto Bismol, that would make her better. But when she was about to open the door, something made her stop. The distinct sound of a sliding glass door. The long balcony extended along the length of the living room and their two bedrooms. She turned and crossed the room again, pushing the curtain to the side and opening the glass door. She craned her head out and looked toward Alana's bedroom, thinking to herself that Alana was probably having trouble sleeping again. But nothing could have prepared her for what she saw. Alana stood against the rail of the balcony, her long hair playing in the breeze, her arms extended forward to the night as if in greeting, her whiteness contrasting eerily with the overflowing darkness. Her only attire was a short black kimono, but it was loosely tied and fell off one shoulder. "Alana!" Valeria called out, rushing to her side. But Alana didn't even turn her head. She kept staring vacantly at the sky in front of her. Valeria couldn't help herself. She had never seen Alana— nor anybody else, for that matter—sleepwalking before, and even though part of her was screaming to shake and wake her up, the other part wanted to watch. Vaguely she remembered having read something about sleepwalkers, and how dangerous it was to wake them too abruptly. For a moment longer she watched, mesmerized. She looked down against the rail, which stood chest-high, and a 57

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wave of panic swept down her spine. What if one night, while sleepwalking, Alana decided to climb over the rail? They were seventeen stories high, for Christ's sake! Valeria stared at Alana's unblinking face, at her naked shoulder. Her flesh seemed almost iridescent in the moonlight. Why did she look so pale? Alana's arms fell to her sides, and the expression of peacefulness that had covered her face was replaced by one of despondency and sadness. "Alana," Valeria softly said, holding her hand gently but firmly. "Let's go inside, let's go to your room." Alana blinked, her black eyes glazed and vacant. But she let herself be guided, and a moment later they were inside the room. "There, very good. Lie down," Valeria said, switching on the night lamp. "Close your eyes and go back to sleep. Shhhhhh, everything will be all right." Alana did as she was told. Valeria was acting instinctively. She didn't know if this was the right thing to do in this situation, but what else could she do? She covered Alana's body with the sheets and sat next to her on the edge of the bed, a bit uncertain about what to do next. How long had this been going on? Alana had told her she had been having trouble sleeping during the past few weeks. Had she been sleepwalking all this time, going out onto the balcony, exposing herself to death? The thought was too disturbing to contemplate. For a long moment, Valeria stared at her, watching how her pupils moved rapidly under the delicate skin of her lids. 58

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Valeria let out a long heavy breath. She brought a hand to her stomach. With all the excitement, her stomach ache had disappeared. As her brown eyes darted to the sliding glass door, she suddenly felt the need to walk over and close it. She made sure it was well locked. Then she drew the curtain. Turning around slowly, she looked about the room. Everything seemed in order. The stereo was on, but no sound came from it. The cassette had reached its end and stopped playing. She bent over and switched it off. Then she lay down on the bed beside Alana, telling herself that tomorrow they would have a good talk. She lay on her side with her head resting on her bent arm, looking at her friend. The faint light of the night lamp was stinging her eyes, but she would leave it on tonight. She gazed at Alana until she could no longer keep her lids from closing. Then she turned over on the other side, closed her eyes and succumbed to sleep.

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CHAPTER 4 "Are you sure you didn't dream the whole thing?" Alana said, slipping her legs into jeans, though she knew that what Valeria was saying was probably the truth. Why was she being so mulish? Why did she hate to admit there was something wrong with herself? "Alana, have you been listening to me? I'm telling you that you could have fallen down that balcony. You could have died. Why are you taking this so lightly? Believe me, this is serious. And I know it has something to do with those nightmares you've been having, those nightmares you're not telling me about. Don't bother denying it. I'm not stupid, you know." "You're not stupid? I didn't know that." Clenching her teeth, Valeria obviously decided to ignore the remark. They were in Alana's bedroom. Valeria was standing in the doorway, clad in a short black dress, her blond hair gathered in a loose chignon on top of her head, her face expertly made up, a black leather purse hanging from one shoulder. Even though her eyes were a bit puffy and red from lack of sleep, she still looked lovely. She glanced at her watch. "Look, I'm late. I hate to leave this unsettled. Why don't you just promise me that you'll go to a doctor? Is that too much to ask? We can go together. I can take a day off." Alana was standing in front of the dressing table, brushing her hair. "I hate doctors. What is he going to say? And even if I'm a sleepwalker, what is he going to do?" 60

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"How can you know if you don't go there?" Still brushing her hair, Alana sighed wearily. "Maybe it's nothing," Valeria went on. "You've been under a lot of pressure lately. All the planning and preparations for the restaurant have taken all the energy out of you. You haven't been eating well. Look at you. You look so pale. Maybe your hemoglobin is low, maybe he'll give you vitamins." "If I'm so pale it is because we haven't been to the beach in more than a month. Your tan is gone, too." "Why are you doing this? God, I feel like strangling you." A short laugh escaped Alana. She didn't know why she was acting like this. She just felt like it. Sometimes, without any apparent reason, she sadistically enjoyed infuriating Valeria. It always made her feel guilty, but the guilt never stopped her from doing it. She stuffed her white shirt into her jeans and buckled her leather belt. Yes, she had lost some weight. The jeans were somewhat loose at the waist, when only a week ago they had been tight. "Let's see," Alana finally said, aiming to end the conversation. "Let's see if it happens again. If it happens again, I promise you I'll go to the doctor." "I don't think last night was the first time. How am I going to sleep now, thinking that at any moment you could open the door and jump from the balcony?" "I don't think you'll ever get that lucky." Valeria looked painfully surprised. Then he threw Alana a malevolent look. "You're impossible." "You're impossible!" Alana mimicked her. 61

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"Why am I bothering? Go to hell!" Valeria said, turning on her heels and hastening down the corridor. A moment later Alana heard the front door slam. "Why am I bothering? Go to hell," she mimicked again, almost whispering. But she felt rotten. She knew that Valeria was telling the truth, not because she remembered anything but because Valeria would be incapable of such a lie. And what would be the point in lying, anyway? She had clearly read the concern in Valeria's eyes. As far as she knew, she had never experienced sleepwalking before. But there was always a first time for everything, and sleepwalking was, actually, quite common. It was not such a far-fetched possibility. Also, it might explain the strange and disturbing dreams she had had during the past few weeks. The whole thing was probably connected to stress, as Valeria had said. It had to be. Her restless nights had begun right after she had taken this job. Maybe it would be a good idea to go to the doctor, after all, so he could prescribe something to help her sleep. She slipped her feet into high-heeled sandals and stepped out onto the balcony. It was sticky and hot. The bright morning sun blinded her for a moment and she had to shade her eyes with her hand. The view was splendid, deep green mountains and clear blue skies and huge white clouds like gigantic clusters of cotton balls. No wonder Puerto Rican skies were famous. She leaned against the white rail and looked down at the small streets and neighborhoods, at the houses with their small square swimming pools. 62

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Why wasn't she afraid? Even after what had happened last night, she couldn't be afraid, as if she were, somehow, totally sure of her own safety. As if she were ... untouchable. This morning she had been momentarily stunned to find Valeria sleeping beside her. Right away she had sensed that something was wrong, although in a way it had been a pleasant surprise, reminding her of all those times they had slept together when they were little, making up supernatural stories, making up adventure and romance stories... So she had been sleepwalking last night ... She shuddered, the memory of the panther accelerating her pulse. Ah, the hell with it! She was sick and tired of this dream-and-noremember business. The hell with all of it! The hell with the doctor and the hell with Valeria and the hell with herself! She was not going to think about it anymore. She walked along the length of the balcony and went inside through the living-room glass doors, muttering a curse to human beings and to life in general. **** By the time Alana came home from work that night, Valeria was already asleep in bed, or pretending to be asleep in bed—probably the latter. Alana felt a sudden urge to go to her and apologize. Well, not exactly apologize, for they hardly ever used the word apologize or sorry with one another. Both were too stupidly proud for this. But she could have burst into Valeria's room with an amusing remark or simply asked her in a sweet voice how her day had been. And Valeria would have 63

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understood and they would have smiled at each other and known that everything was all right and that would be the end of it. But Alana didn't go into Valeria's room. She went straight into her own room and began flinging off her shoes and taking off her clothes. She had already washed off all of her vampire makeup in the little back room at the club, so the only thing left to do was brush her teeth and jump into bed. After turning on the stereo, hardly audible, to the same classical music station, Alana walked over to the glass door and lingered there for a while, staring at the velvety night sky and realizing with a shiver that she didn't want to close the glass door. She wanted it open, wide open. For what? But her common sense finally took the best of her, and she pushed it closed and made sure it was well locked. **** By the time Alana woke up the next morning, Valeria had already gone to work. Alana decided she would show up at Valeria's office at lunch break and take her out to eat. Driving on the highway in her slightly battered, black Suzuki Samurai, she was filled with anticipation, knowing how pleased Valeria would be by the surprise. Alana hated surprises, but Valeria loved them. Little things made Valeria happy in a big way, and Alana loved to make her happy. Affectionate, forgiving Valeria. Though there was a darker side to her. Valeria was an adopted child, she had never known her real parents, nor 64

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anything about them. Fortunately, her adoptive parents had been a loving, generous couple, but Valeria had always kept a cold secret core within her, shutting off the rest of the world from it. On various occasions she had impulsively expressed her desire to find out who her real parents were, but these were fantasies declared under the influence of wine. Most of the time the mere mention of her real parents created in her a kind of icy silent rage. Valeria never liked talking about them, and Alana respected this. She herself had lost both her parents while still young, she understood the hidden rebellion, the rage. Their bitter past had bound them closer. Even Humberto had lost his mother while still a child, had grown up discovering different mistresses in his father's house, and this episode had probably been a bonding key in his relationship with Alana and Valeria. **** They had pizza and red wine—their favorite meal—for lunch, and everything was perfectly fine again. Although Valeria made Alana promise to go to the doctor if something similar happened again. "Anything you say. Your wish is my command," Alana extravagantly said, biting off a piece of her pizza and washing it down with a sip of red wine. They talked about Humberto and about what they would do when he arrived next week. "We can all go to the nightclub after you're off from work," Valeria suggested. 65

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"I was going to say the same thing. When is he coming, exactly? He didn't give us a date. Remember that I'm off on Mondays and Tuesdays." "We can always phone him and find out ... if he's done with his desert camping trip." Alana shook her head. "He's not." "You called him?" "I called him yesterday. A machine answered." Then she added, "Since we weren't exactly on speaking terms, I didn't tell you." "Did you leave a message?" "Of course not. You know how I hate those machines." "Do you realize how neurotic you are? How many things do you hate in this world?" A slight smirk played over Alana's lips. Maybe Valeria was right, maybe she was a bit neurotic. Though they both knew that it wasn't really a matter of "hating," but of using the word "hate" lightly, and of liking to use it often in speech. Alana wondered what a psychiatrist would say about this. Things went on normally during the next week. Alana became more calm, more cool and professional at work, and Valeria was very busy designing plans for the remodeling of a five-star hotel. Sometimes she arrived home as late as Alana, complaining about how tired she was, but happy because she was spending more time with Miguel, who stayed with her late at the office. But Valeria was never too tired to describe in full detail their wild escapades. As far as they could tell, the sleepwalking experience had not repeated itself. Valeria had woken during the night on two 66

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occasions to check on Alana, and had found her soundly asleep. Just as they had left them in the night, the sliding glass doors were always locked when they checked them in the morning. The dream of the black panther with yellow eyes did repeat itself one more time. Alana had woken with a throbbing pulse, a fluttering in her stomach, but somehow this didn't bother her anymore, as if the panther had become part of her, and its presence in her sleep no longer disturbed nor surprised her. On the contrary, it was a beautiful image to fall asleep with. I want to sleep and dream. Humberto called them the following Saturday afternoon to make plans for the night. Since Alana would be working, Humberto suggested he would come for Valeria in his car at nine o'clock, and from there they would go to La Cueva del Vampiro and meet Alana at the restaurant. Later they could all go to the nightclub. Alana and Valeria agreed, filled with glee and anxious anticipation. "Are you going to tell Miguel to join us?" Alana said after they had hung up, sinking in the soft leather sofa and crossing her legs. Valeria looked surprised. "What for? I want this to be an intimate reunion between friends. And I don't think he would come, even if I asked him. He'll spend the weekend with his family. You know how it was all this week, staying late at the office." She sat on the armrest of one of the armchairs and bent slightly forward, leaning her hands on her thighs. "He wouldn't be jealous?" Alana said. 67

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"I haven't told him anything about Humberto. But why would he be jealous? Humberto's just an old friend, like a brother. And even if he gets jealous, let him get jealous. You don't see me complaining about his wife, do you? Sometimes I wish lightning would strike him," Valeria said, an edge of iciness in her voice. "Not a very nice way to die," Alana said. "Not very original, either. Try to be more original, please." "It would make you happier, wouldn't it? If he died?" Valeria slowly said. In fact her voice was like a kitten's purr. For a second Alana seemed stunned. "Don't talk like that, Valeria. God, sometimes I can't tell whether you love or despise him." "Hmmm." Valeria considered. "I thought you couldn't stand the sight of him." "Let's just say he's not as much a bastard as I thought he was. The other night, at the opening ... well, he wasn't so bad." "Well, well, well," Valeria said. "At last you have admitted it. I told you how serious he was, and hardworking, and loyal, and responsible." Alana snorted, bewildered. "A second ago you wanted him dead. Now you're his lawyer. Anyway, don't push it. Loyal? Give me a break." "Human emotions are very complex. Love and hate are eternally united." "Tell me about it. No wonder I feel like killing you sometimes." 68

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Valeria made an impatient gesture with her hands. "Forget about the Pirate and let's talk about Humberto," she said, grinning. "There might be possibilities for you." "Don't be ridiculous." "What's so ridiculous about it? He's rich and handsome and..." "And?" "And he has always felt something for you." Alana sneered. "What about for you?" She sprang to her feet and went to the kitchen to fetch a bottle of orange juice from the refrigerator. Bending back her head, she drained almost half of it in a few greedy gulps. The liquid was delicious, cold and thick and sweet. Valeria watched her from the kitchen doorway, apparently mesmerized by her voracity. "Take it easy, you're going to choke yourself to death." Then she went on talking about Humberto. "Okay, so he had it for both of us. That's no secret. The question is, do we still have feelings for him?" "We do—did, I mean." They stared a each other, a compressed smile on both their faces. "Uh-huh," Valeria said. "It was all a game." "All a game?" "All a game," Alana said. "But you were attracted to him. Very attracted ... and I mean animal attraction." Alana shrugged, smiling. "We were healthy kids. It was all a game." 69

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"You keep saying that. He was the first boy you ever kissed ... we ever kissed," Valeria said. She looked at Valeria, bewildered. "So?" "Wouldn't you like him to be the first?" "As he was yours?" Valeria sighed. "How many times will I have to tell you that I've never slept with him? My God, you've nailed this idea into your brain," she protested, making a restless gesture with her hands. She paused. "You're not going to answer me?" "Curiosity killed the cat." "Be serious!" "If I would like Humberto to be the first? Hell, no. He's like a brother to me." Valeria scoffed. "Come on, don't give me that. I know you." "You think you know me," Alana slowly said. Valeria laughed, but she appeared to sober a bit. "We'll celebrate your first time." Alana held the bottle of orange juice tightly in her hand. Why did Valeria enjoy doing this to her? Why did they take perverse pleasure in driving each other crazy? It was like an addiction, like a drug. Were they deranged? Valeria leaned against the doorway and folded her arms across her chest. "Let me ask you something, Alana. When was the last time you were kissed by a man?" Alana felt a wave of heat rise to her cheeks. Oddly, the memory of this hot sensation seemed to her distinctively recent. "Why are you obsessed with my private life? You 70

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pretend to joke about it, but you're obsessed with it." And yet she was smiling coldly, tauntingly. "Obsessed with your private life? What private life?" "At least I don't jump from one bed to another like a whore," Alana said, and immediately regretted it. God, the sudden urge to pull Valeria into her arms and give her a fierce hug was almost unbearable. But she refused to let her feelings show. Valeria didn't reply, momentarily wounded and at loss for words. But surprisingly, she didn't insult her back. Instead she changed the conversation drastically. "What should I wear tonight? Can you lend me the green silk dress?" she said, her voice a mixture of forgiveness and reproach. Alana's eyes dropped to the bottle of orange juice in her hand. "Sure ... yes, sure." "Thank you," Valeria said, turning toward her room. "Your welcome." From under her lowered lashes, Alana watched her go and then gulped down the rest of the orange juice, savoring its thickness and sweetness as it flowed down her throat. Some of it trickled down her chin and she wiped it off with the back of her hand. Lately she had been feeling unusually thirsty, like a dry old sponge, insatiable. **** "Let's get drunk tonight, like old times. If we get too smashed to drive, we'll call a taxi," Humberto said. He was sitting across from Valeria at one of the corner tables of the restaurant. Beside their table, protruding from the wall, stood 71

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an old decrepit skeleton, medieval-looking torchlights casting ghostly flickering shadows on either side of it. "Let's drink to that," Valeria said, bringing her glass of red wine to her lips. Alana laughed. "Remember the last time we got drunk, last summer?" "Oh, my God, yes!" Valeria said. "You were playing chess. You almost killed each other. Who won, anyway?" "No one. Before it was over Alana hurled the chess board across the room. All the pieces went flying all over the place. I was winning, naturally," Humberto said. "No, no. That was on another night," Alana protested. "The last time we got drunk we got into an argument about vigilantism and justice." "Oh, yeah. That's true," Humberto said. "We can argue about less sensitive topics tonight. About music and books, or about food and wine. Or about paintings. I just got this new video documentary on Dali." Valeria looked alarmed. "No please! I don't want to hear about Dali tonight. You get too carried away." "I love Dali. His paintings are like my nightmares," Alana said. "But paintings with angels are my favorite." "I think paintings with angels are spooky," Valeria said. Valeria and Humberto had arrived more than an hour ago. Alana had welcomed him warmly, hugging and kissing and thanking him profusely for the flowers, and people had turned their heads to look at them. Three beautiful young people. The three Musketeers. Alana had quickly showed them to the table she had reserved, and Valeria and Humberto drank and 72

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ate extravagantly, loving the food but feeling sorry for Alana for not being able to sit with them. Alana had hardly had any free time to talk to them. Friday and Saturday nights were the busiest, and the restaurant had been swarming with customers since eight o'clock. Humberto loved the place, loved Alana's costume and make-up. He told them he had been to a similar place in Los Angeles, a swanky tavern called Fangs, very popular among university students. He was tall and slender, but his body was well-shaped and muscled, due to many years of karate—not a sport he took seriously, but more like a hobby. His skin was deeply tanned. During the summers, when he surfed almost everyday, his skin took such a dark hue it made him look like a mulatto. His hair was brown, not a dull brown but the kind of brown that glows like chestnuts, and fell in unruly waves down to his neck. But the most amazing feature were his eyes, big and brown and gentle, surrounded by dark lashes that were long like Spanish fans, and set under thick brows. Eyes that were solemn, but that often sparked with understanding and kindness. He was a nervous person, always doing something with his hands and feet, endlessly swaying his legs when sitting. He had always been hyperactive. Still was. His father owned the most successful Mercedes Benz dealership on the island. But even though he had grown up in a rich family, Humberto never acted spoiled or arrogant. On the contrary. He was very friendly, generous, and that's why people liked him. 73

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Humberto and Valeria remained at the table drinking wine until Alana ordered the CLOSED sign put out. She left a few instructions with her assistant, a zombie who was actually the person responsible for locking up the place, then she beckoned Humberto and Valeria to follow her. They left the restaurant talking and laughing, their arms wrapped around each other like the three musketeers, Humberto squeezed in the middle. As they went down the narrow corridor to the nightclub, Humberto gasped at the torchlights and skulls around him and said, feigning an intense shudder, "Oh, my God! I'm sooooo scared! Please hold me tight!" And he shut his eyes and snuggled between them. Alana and Valeria giggled. And for a moment it truly felt like old times. At the end of the corridor the werewolf porter opened the door for them, and in a minute they were swallowed by the darkly magical gloominess of the club. Victor, dressed as Dracula, greeted Alana and Valeria with a kiss and they introduced him to Humberto. "I have your table. Follow me," Victor shouted, trying to get himself heard over the loud music. After they were seated, Humberto ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon. Alana and Valeria protested, saying he didn't have to, that it was too expensive. "Don't worry, I'll pay for it with my credit card," Humberto said. "You still have to pay your credit card bills, don't you?" Alana said. 74

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"I said don't worry," Humberto said. "What's the occasion?" Victor said, his imposing Dracula figure bending forward over their table. "An old-time friends' reunion," Alana said, looking up at him. "I'll bring the bottle myself. It's not everyday we open a Dom Perignon," Victor said, giving them a wink and stalking off, his black cape flaring behind him. "That's sweet of you, Humberto, but you really didn't have to do it. The important thing is that we're together. Any bottle of wine would have been just fine," Alana said. "He didn't let me pay for my dinner, either," Valeria told her, though she added, "I've never had Dom Perignon before." Humberto smiled. "What about you, Alana?" She shrugged. "Me neither ... But it's just champagne, isn't it?" "You see how she is, Humberto? The problem with her is that she doesn't know how to live," Valeria said. "Okay, let's not make a big deal out of it. It's just champagne. It's nothing," Humberto said, leaning his elbows on the table. His eyes settled on Alana's neck. "Very nice, Alana. Your necklace." "Everybody loves that necklace," Valeria said. He frowned. "That's strange. I feel as though I've seen that necklace somewhere before. Or something similar to it. But I don't remember where." "Really?" Alana said. "Let me know if you remember, okay? I'm dying to know about it myself." 75

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Then they explained to Humberto all the mystery surrounding La Cueva del Vampiro, and how they thought everything was probably a publicity scam. After a moment Victor came back with their bottle of Dom Perignon, and Alana noticed that some of the people from other tables were glancing curiously at them. Victor uncorked the bottle. A faint popping sound was heard—the music swallowed up most of the sound—and Victor poured the foamy crystalline liquid into their glasses. Under the red shafts of light that stemmed from the stalactites, the champagne had acquired an ominous reddish glow. Victor wished them a fun night and walked off, disappearing among the heads of the crowd. Alana was glad she had called earlier to reserve a table. The club was filled. All of the tables seemed taken, and the dancing floor swarmed with young swirling bodies. The long sarcophagusbar at the end of the room was so packed with customers it was impossible to see the bartenders. "To friendship," Alana said, lifting her glass of champagne. Humberto and Valeria raised their glasses and repeated in unison, "To friendship." They clinked glasses, their eyes beaming with happiness. And drank. "Mmmm," Valeria said, and drank some more. "It's really delicious. I never thought it would make so much difference, but it does. How will I ever go back to normal champagne now?" "Marry me, and you won't have to," Humberto said. "Don't say that! I might take you seriously," Valeria said. 76

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"Yes, it's really delicious," Alana said. She tilted her head back and gulped down the rest of the glass. Valeria laughed. "For God's sake, Alana! This is not beer! You have to savor it and take pleasure in each tiny sip." "I'm thirsty," Alana said, licking her lips. Her throat felt parched, and the coolness of the champagne was so soothing... "Let me refill your glass," Humberto said, reaching for the bottle in the silver ice-bucket and pouring her more champagne. There was a moment of silence in which the three looked at each other, as if not knowing what to say next. Then they laughed. "Great. Now that we're together I don't know what the hell to talk about," Humberto said. "I guess I wore him down during dinner," Valeria said, biting her lower lip and giving them a melodramatic sad look. Humberto shook his head, taking her seriously. "No, no, you didn't." Valeria turned to Alana. "I told him all about our jobs, our new apartment, our fights together—you know, a synopsis of our present lives. So you don't have to bore him with the same story over again." "She couldn't possibly bore me," Humberto said, looking at Alana. His big brown eyes flickered with warmth, and threw her a look that clearly said, Valeria will never change, will she? But Alana said, "She's right. And anyway, you know how I hate talking about myself. I prefer when Valeria does it for 77

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me. So let's talk about you. How does it feel being an astronomer?" "He's not an astronomer yet," Valeria said. "Valeria, please. Drink your champagne and let the poor guy talk," Alana said. "What did I do? Okay, okay, I'll be a good girl," Valeria said. Alana turned to Humberto. "Just ignore her," she said. Humberto laughed. "You two will never change." Then he added, "It's true, though. To call myself an astronomer I need at least a master's degree. Right now I just have a bachelor's in physics." Alana leaned her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands. "Valeria told me you plan to start your master's in the spring semester." Humberto nodded, somewhat guiltily. "Yeah, I should go back to school at the beginning of September, but I'm really worn down. I thought it'd be nice to stay here for a while. I miss my father, too. I want to spend some time with him." Alana's eyes lit up. "How's he doing? I haven't seen him in years." "Oh, he's fine. Forever the businessman, he never gives up." "How old is he now?" Alana said. "Almost seventy. But he still looks fifty-five," he said. "You know? He always asks me about you." "I think the last time I saw him was four years ago. Yes, yes. Do you remember? After our high-school graduation he gave a big pool party at your home," Alana said. 78

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Alana frowned, picturing Humberto's father in her mind. Antonio Curet. A tall, good-looking, middle-aged man with dark-rimmed glasses and suntanned skin, always impeccably dressed, and always carrying a chic, elegant briefcase. After the death of his wife, when Humberto was only five, he had remained unmarried. He was a successful man. Besides the Mercedes Benz dealership, he owned an office building in Hato Rey, a parking lot, and a few coffee shops. If there was more, Alana didn't know. There was always one or two men around him ... secretaries? But listening to Humberto talk about his father, she had grown to admire him. He had been born in poverty in Santo Domingo and had left school and started working at fourteen. He had been a taxi and truck driver in New York, then he had started lending money to people ... and in this way his fortune had begun. He was a self-made man, lived in a sumptuous mansion in one of the most prestigious neighborhoods of the city, and was very generous with his family and friends, always making sure his nieces and nephews went to good schools and universities. He had always wished for Humberto to become a lawyer. Of course, all this information Alana had gotten from Humberto, for she had hardly ever sat down and talked with Señor Curet. Except ... except for the difficult time immediately following her mother's death, when Señor Curet had been deeply consoling her and her uncle, offering his help in any way possible. Alana remembered him at the funeral. He had clenched his jaw, and for a moment his face had contorted with raw, piercing grief. Something doesn't feel right. 79

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Alana snapped back to the present, abruptly shoving away the memory as she shoved her thick reddish hair away from her face. She gulped down some more champagne, her hand clasped tightly around the glass. Humberto talked about his studies, about Los Angeles, about a girl he had recently met this summer and with whom he had gone on the camping trip—a librarian seven years his senior who loved wine and books. He talked about California, a place he loved and where eventually he planned to work and live. Then Alana talked about Boston, about its splendid autumns and merciless winters, about how she had led a quiet life there, keeping away from parties and concentrating on her studies. Humberto asked her if she had visited Salem, a place she had been obsessed with since she was in high school, when she had been forever talking about witches and their infamous trials. Alana nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, yes! I went last year. You won't believe it, but the first thing you see when you enter the town is a cemetery. There's a witch museum and a couple of other historical places. I stayed two nights, a Friday and a Saturday. Actually, there was nothing out of the world there, but I loved it. I loved the sensation of being there. I stayed in a very picturesque little inn, next to a small forest. That night ... it was so strange, that night..." she stopped, her eyes suddenly widening with bewilderment. She had had a strange dream in Salem, a dream which up to this point had been blurred in her mind. But now, astoundingly enough, she could remembered it with amazing clarity. 80

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"What is it?" Valeria said, nudging Alana with her elbow. Alana looked at her, feeling disturbingly excited. Yes, the champagne had gotten into her brain cells, but this had nothing to do with it. Humberto frowned, gazing expectantly at Alana. Alana went on. "The second night, at the inn, I had a strange dream. I woke up in the middle of the night and had to turn all the lamps on—you know what a coward I am when I'm alone with my imagination. I couldn't sleep after that. I remember it so well because the next day, on the drive back to Boston, my eyes were red and burning from lack of sleep. I really looked like a witch from Salem, with my red hair and red eyes." "What did you dream?" Humberto said. "A raccoon..." Alana said. "A beautiful raccoon in the window." "A raccoon? They're so cute, those animals," Humberto said. "I'm sorry, go on." Valeria remained silent. She had turned oddly quiet, and seemed to be listening intently to Alana. "He was gorgeous. His fur was so thick and silky, and his ring tail was this big," she said, demonstrating the thickness with her hands. "Oh, he was luscious. His eyes glowed in the dark like a cat's. Anyway, he came to my bed and told me to come with him. Of course, he didn't literally tell me to come with him—you know how it is in dreams. Words weren't necessary. He could read my thoughts and I could read his. We climbed out through the window and he led me into the small forest that was behind the inn and we saw all the 81

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animals of the night. You know, all the animals that you can't normally find during the day. And we talked to them. "We could communicate with the animals. And I climbed pine trees and jumped down from their tops as if I were a monkey, as effortlessly as if there were no gravity." She looked at Valeria and said, a twinge of tremor in her voice, "And when I woke up the bedroom window was open. It was wide open. I thought I had locked it before going to bed, but obviously I had forgotten." Alana saw Valeria swallow. She instantly knew what Valeria was thinking because it was the same thing she herself was thinking. She had been sleepwalking! "It's so odd," Alana said. "I knew I had a strange dream that night, but I couldn't remember the details. All I could recall was the image of that raccoon, so beautiful, so benevolent, though there was a darker side to it. But now I remember the whole thing from beginning to end." "But Alana, what do you expect? Always watching horror films or reading horror books. Remember in school? You were always telling us scary stories, making us believe in ghosts and witches," Humberto said, reaching for the empty bottle of champagne. "Well, Dom Perignon is finished. What do you want to drink now? Why are you two looking at each other like that?" "No, we're not looking at each other," Alana said innocently, giving Valeria a meaningful look. Valeria bit her lower lip. She remained quiet, thoughtful.

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"Let's dance!" Alana said, not only to cheer Valeria up but also herself. She sprang to her feet and pulled Humberto with one hand and Valeria with the other. "Come on, let's go, the three of us, like old times." They danced to four songs, their bodies swirling and twisting until Alana saw the expression of thoughtfulness disappear from Valeria's face. Then they went back to the table and Alana ordered another bottle of champagne, this one more reasonably priced. "I don't want to get sick, so we'd better stick to champagne. And this time Valeria and I are buying," she told Humberto. They toasted to their futures. Humberto talked about his new girlfriend in Los Angeles and Valeria a little bit about her Pirate. Then one of Valeria's favorite love songs, Bon Jovi's "Always," started playing and Valeria got wild about it and ushered Humberto back to the dance floor. Alana lifted the cold glass of champagne to her lips and drank it in two long draughts, her half-open eyes following them and watching them disappear onto the dance floor. **** He left the glass of Coca-Cola untouched on the bar and stood up from the stool. This was it. He had dreamed about this night for years, but now that he was about to meet her, really meet her, he was nervous. Just a little bit, but nervous nevertheless. He had to smile, mocking himself. 83

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He wondered how he would seem to her, a twenty-eightyear old, smug-looking guy clad in a loose white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and beige pants, his shoulder-length raven hair pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He would play it cleanly tonight. No telepathic control, no spells. Definitely, unconditionally, absolutely no spells ... for he had become, in spite of himself, addicted to them. He craved to talk to her as much as he craved her blood. But he had never been good with words. Actually, he had always been quite laconic and scornful of men who wasted time with fancy words, like politicians and lawyers. What was the use for words when a thousand thoughts could be expressed in a single stroke, or a kiss, or a ... bite? God, it almost felt like being human again. No wonder he was nervous! It was not easy acting human anymore. In fact, it was almost frightening. But he guessed this was the prize for being the loner that he was. He walked toward her table feeling quite breathless, keenly aware of the relentless beat of his heart, throbbing steadily in his chest.

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CHAPTER 5 Alana was rummaging inside her purse for her lipstick when the voice stopped her in mid-action. "Excuse me." A melodic voice, huskily masculine. Alana looked up, startled. Then, immediately recognizing the man who stood in front of her, her heart made a savage leap. The face! "Would you like to dance?" the man said, giving her a half smile, bending slightly forward over her and offering her his hand, a large tanned hand with lean dark fingers. For a second Alana stared at him, speechless. She didn't know why, but she was extremely happy to see him. And she was so excited she literally couldn't move. She could picture her own face right now, turning from one shade of red to yet another darker shade of red. His face twisted into a full smile, and she saw sharp white teeth and the most irresistible dimple formed on his right cheek. "I ... yes ... why not?" Alana said, doing her best to appear aloof. Giving him her hand, she was keenly aware of the tingly coolness of his skin. She was still hot from all the dancing and the sensation was unexpectedly sensual. He led her between the moving couples and into the middle of the dance floor, not breaking his firm hold on her hand. Then he clasped his arms around her waist and pulled her gently against him—gently, yet deviously possessive. 85

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Instinctively she lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck, feeling acutely aware of his height. Even with her high heels, the top of her head was at the level of his chin. They began to move slowly with the music. Calm down, calm down, calm down, she told herself. But she only swallowed dryness, the violent beats of her own heart thundering in her head. For a while she allowed herself to be led, too nervous to even raise her eyes to look at him. Oddly enough, she had a distinct feeling of déjà vu. His strong arms tightened around her waist, a subtle gesture, but one that made Alana lift her eyes to look into his face. He looked down to meet her gaze. Above them, red shafts of light moved rhythmically with the music, somehow making his features appear less benevolent and more menacing than they had seemed only a minute ago. Alana frowned. But then he half smiled, and the melancholic curve of his mouth erased nearly all trace of menace from his face. His smile gave her courage. She smiled back and said, "Were you here the night of the opening? I think I saw you." Dear God, why was she suddenly acting so shy? Why was she shaking all over? He nodded. "Yes, I was here." "Did you see me, too?" "Everybody saw you that night. You were getting a lot of attention with your vampire costume and make-up. It suits you very much." Then he added, his gaze locking onto hers, "But to answer your question directly, yes." Perfect Spanish, yet with a faint foreign accent. 86

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She lowered her gaze for a moment, conscious of the hardness of his body against hers as they danced. The first four buttons of his white shirt were undone and his chest, tanned and dusted with black hairs, teased her eyes. "Where are you from? You have a faint accent," she said, looking up into his eyes again. "Turkey," he answered. For a vertiginous second she felt the floor spin beneath her feet. "From Turkey?"she repeated. The salty tang of the Bosphorus, a scorching sun and narrow dust-filled streets, imposing old mosques, exotic women wrapped in black garments, the blinding shimmer of gold and copper and bronze ... the bazaar ... the bazaar... "You look ... slightly shocked. Haven't you met anybody from Turkey before?" he said. "No, it's not that. I have, actually, in Boston. I studied there for four years. There were a few Turkish students in my dorm. It's not that. It's just that I've never met anybody from Turkey here in San Juan before. It's very unusual. Do you live here?" "Yes. For the moment." "Your Spanish is perfect, though. Where did you learn it?" He looked pleased. "Thank you. I lived for a few years in Spain. I had business there. In Miami, too." "What do you do?" At that moment the song finished and another one began, this time a fast-paced, spicy merengue. Reluctantly, Alana unwrapped her arms from around his neck and glanced hesitatingly in the direction of her table— 87

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not that it was visible from where she was standing, the dancing couples blocked the view. But his steel arms never left her waist and he didn't allow her any more time to think. His right hand took her left hand, and, no questions asked, he began to move rapidly with the music. Alana, totally panicked, didn't have any other choice than to put her right hand on his shoulder and move along with him. She hated merengue! The reason she hated it was because she didn't know how to dance the merengue. "I'm a lousy dancer!" she protested, embarrassed, her voice raised high to compete with the volume of the music. He laughed. "So am I!" he said, his arm tightening around her waist, pulling her still closer against him. As if he couldn't, or wouldn't, let her go yet. She didn't know if he was an excellent dancer or not, but she saw how his body was moving, and knew he was lying. "No, you're not!" she said. Next to him she felt like a wooden puppet, but she tried to do her best to keep up with him. He lowered his mouth to her ear. "Just relax," he told her. So Alana let him turn her around and around, keenly conscious of the lecherous way his hips and legs brushed and stroked hers, which was not really his fault but the nature of the dance. Always the good student, she began to imitate him. The three glasses of champagne she had drank helped, too. It was strange, but in a way she didn't remember the last time she had been this happy. She began to laugh. "I guess I'm very anti-patriotic," Alana said. "I love American music, not this island stuff." 88

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"Three more merengues and you'll be doing it better than I do," he said. "You lied to me. You're an excellent dancer!" she protested. But it was difficult speaking with so much noise, so they concentrated on the dancing until the end of the song. "I'm sorry," Alana said, somewhat breathlessly, trying to push him gently away. "But my friends must be wondering about me. Would you like to join us? My friends wouldn't mind." Finally he released her. "I don't think that's a good idea," he said. Alana looked at him. She hated parting from him. And the desire to see him again was so intense it was almost incomprehensible. He smiled a bit. "Can I see you again? Tomorrow night?" "You want to see me again? Tomorrow night?" Alana said as calmly as she could manage, while something wild fluttered in the pit of her stomach. "Hmmm.... "She seemed to consider his proposal. "Let me see, am I doing something tomorrow night? Tomorrow's Sunday. I have to work, but I guess we could meet for a drink after I'm done. Where? Here?" He nodded, a flicker of sarcastic amusement in his eyes. "Yes, here. At eleven o'clock?" "Eleven is a little too early for me, I have to change after work. Unless you don't mind talking to a vampire," she said, gesturing to her dress and make-up. 89

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"I wouldn't have you any other way," he said. "But let's make it eleven-fifteen, then." "All right ... Well, until tomorrow then." She turned to go, vaguely amused by his words. "Wait a minute," he suddenly said. "Aren't you going to tell me your name?" She let out a nervous laugh. "Oh, my God. How foolish of me. My name is Alana, Alana Piovanetti. And yours?" "Sadash." "Sadash. No last name?" "No, just Sadash." "Just Sadash," she repeated, savoring his name in her lips. "Sadash. Well, with a name like that you hardly need anything else," she told him, smiling. Then she started toward her table, forcing herself not to turn her head and look back at him again. When Alana returned to the table Valeria and Humberto were looking at her with wolfish grins on their faces. Valeria didn't waste one second. "Who's that?" she said. "You saw him?" Alana said, sitting down. "Don't tell me you saw me dancing merengue, too." "I saw you first, but Valeria wouldn't believe it, so she got up to take a look," Humberto said. Alana grimaced. "Was I terrible?" "No, no, you were good," Humberto assured her. "I can't believe you actually danced the merengue with a man," Valeria said. She, too, hated that dance. "Who is he?"

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Apparently during her absence they had ordered a small bowl of cashew nuts, and Alana reached for some and popped them into her mouth. She shrugged, avoiding Valeria's eyes. "No one, just a guy. A minute after you left the table he came over and asked me to dance. He's ... remember the night of the opening—the face?" Valeria smiled, surprised. "That's him?" "Uh-huh," Alana said, washing down some more nuts with a gulp of champagne. "What face?" Humberto said. Valeria explained, "The night of the opening, when we were sitting here in the club, she saw a strange face—a man—staring at her. At least it appeared strange to her, probably because of these red lights. A moment later he was gone. I didn't see him, she did." "Oh," Humberto said. "So this is the same guy." "He's a knock-out, Alana," Valeria said. "He is?" "Now she's going to say she didn't notice it," Valeria teased, poking Alana's arm with her elbow. Alana gave them an innocent smile. "I didn't notice it." She yawned. "What time is it, anyway? Are you tired? I'm tired. Why don't we go home? You can come with us, Humberto. We can watch TV. I want to get rid of this damn dress and makeup." "Sure, we can go. I have that Dali documentary in the car. We can put it in the VCR," he said. "Oh, okay," Alana said. 91

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"Wait a minute. Wait a minute. What's this? Aren't you going to tell us anything else?" Valeria said. "It's no big deal, Valeria. I just danced with the guy. That's all it was, just a dance." "Did he ask to see you again?" "I have a headache," Alana said, grimacing, massaging her temples with her fingertips. Valeria looked at Humberto. "What a convenient headache," she muttered. Humberto laughed. "So she doesn't want to talk. Leave her alone." "You never give up, do you?" Alana told her. The headache wasn't a lie, and the fact that Valeria didn't believe her suddenly felt exasperating. "What am I doing? I'm not doing anything," Valeria protested, glancing at Humberto for support. "I didn't say you were doing anything," Alana wearily said. "It's just that you're eternally obsessed in pairing me with someone. And you know how I hate that. But that doesn't stop you. You still do it." Valeria tilted back her head and gulped the rest of her champagne. The gesture was quick and rough, almost masculine. "Hey, hey. What's this? You're acting like two silly little girls," Humberto said, though he was so used to their behavior he seemed far from surprised. "Come on, give each other a kiss right now." Neither Alana nor Valeria moved. 92

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"Don't worry, Humberto," Valeria drawled. "Obviously the champagne must have gone to her head ." Alana threw her a malevolent look. Then she looked at Humberto and her eyes softened. "I'm sorry, Humberto," she said, patting his hand. "Just ignore us, you know how we are. Let's just go." They rose to leave. Following Humberto and Valeria down the narrow cobbled street toward Humberto's car, it suddenly dawned on Alana why the man—Sadash—had looked somewhat different tonight. His face had not had that iridescent opal quality. It had not seemed to glow in the semidarkness of the club as it had done the night she first saw him. **** Alana sat nervously by the sarcophagus bar, her hand tightly clasped around a cold glass of Diet Coke. She had wiped off all of her vampire makeup and changed into a simple black jersey dress which clung to her flesh and revealed the soft curves of her body. Without make-up she seemed pale, younger. Her long hair was parted in the middle and brushed back, away from her forehead. It didn't have a definite style. It just flowed in unruly waves all over her back and shoulders. She took a sip of Diet Coke and glanced at her watch. Eleven-twenty. Already five minutes late. Where the hell was he? Dear God, she was already experiencing palpitations. If her pulse raced any faster she was going to have a heart attack. 93

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Alana... She stiffened. Surely no one had actually spoken her name, it was more as if it had echoed by itself in her ear, distantly, very distantly. A second later a man whispered behind her, "Alana?" Alana turned around. There he was. Tall and broad-shouldered. Slender. Yet beneath all this slenderness the muscles were hard, she knew. She had felt them when they had danced last night. Something she couldn't quite describe, something ancient and powerful emanated from him. The creature in my dreams ... But no, no, ridiculous ... The creature in my dreams was a panther. His brows, deeply black and somewhat slanted, gave him an air of seductive malevolence she had not seen before. And yet this seemed to be a trick of his features, for there was nothing evil-looking about the rest of his face. It was only the eyebrows, diagonally drawn like that. His eyes appeared yellow-brown, almost golden—she couldn't tell very well because of the flashing red lights around them—and were gazing softly, warmly at her. He was immaculately dressed in a white and blue-striped shirt with white trousers. Casual clothing, sleek, expensive looking. Like last night, the first four buttons of his shirt were undone, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and his slightly wavy, black hair was gathered back into a ponytail. All this she took in, in a matter of seconds. "Hi," she told him, smiling, rising to her feet. "How are you?" 94

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"Fine, thank you. And you?" "I'm fine." "I'm sorry I'm a little late. You know how the traffic is in Old San Juan. I couldn't find a parking spot," he said apologetically. She glanced at her watch. "Hmm. Only six minutes late," she said kindly. Sadash glanced around. "This place is too noisy and crowded. Would you like to go someplace else? Do you know El Patio de Sam?" Alana hesitated. This club was her territory, here she felt safe. Victor and all the waiters and bartenders knew her. But to go somewhere else with a stranger was another thing, even if she knew El Patio de Sam, which was a respectable bar and restaurant where many artists, intellectuals and tourists hung out. "How? In your car?" He seemed to have sensed her hesitation. "Whatever you prefer, Alana. We could go in my car, or we could take our own cars and meet there." He gave her a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, I don't bite." "Oh, it's not that. I don't mean to insult you or anything, but you know how things are in this city, and I hardly know you..." her voice trailed off. But even as she said these words, one part of her wasn't worried or afraid at all, one part of her trusted this stranger completely. She regarded him for a moment.

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He was gazing intently at her. But he appeared calm, relaxed, his hands slipped inside his pockets, a smile playing over his lips. "Okay, we can go," she finally said. "We can take our own cars and meet there. It's easier for you like this, so you won't have to drive me back here afterwards to get my car." He nodded his understanding. "That wouldn't be any bother at all for me. But sure, just as you like. It's very thoughtful of you," he said. Was there a trace of sarcasm in his voice or was it her imagination? Sadash escorted her out of the club. Outside the night was warm and muggy, with a velvety liquid quality to it, and the air was filled with a deliciously salty tang—slightly fishy, actually, but delicious nonetheless— coming from the nearby Caribbean. For a Sunday night the streets seemed unusually alive. Tourists still strolled down the cobbled streets, though among the local people who hung out after this hour must have been individuals far from respectable, drunks and junkies, dope dealers, maybe even killers. Dubious-looking men in shabby shirts and pants leaned against the doorways of open bars or sat on top of the hoods of cars, drinking beer and grunting and making jokes, their coarse laughs echoing in the dimly lit street. Island music came out of these doorways, romantic ballads, salsas, merengues. Some of the women, clad in tight strapless tops and mini skirts, their bodies brown and voluptuous, slowly swung their hips from side to side with the music. Fortunately, Alana's car was parked close to the club. "See you in a few minutes," she told him, opening the door of her 96

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car. She got in and started the engine, watching Sadash as he waved goodbye and disappeared into a dark side street toward his car. El Patio de Sam was only a few minutes away, very close to El Morro Fortress and with a distant view of the sea. There were more people in this area, more tourists window shopping. But there didn't seem to be any place to park her car. For God's sake, it was a Sunday night! Didn't people ever give up? She drove around the nearby streets for a few minutes, until finally she was able to find a free spot. The street was dark and quiet, too dark and quiet. But only for a second, the thought of possible danger crossed her mind. Sadash... She didn't even know his last name. What a crazy thing this was! Was she really doing this? Meeting a man she didn't know anything about at this late hour? For all she knew he could be a psychopath. Either she had lost all of her senses, or she was under the influence of a spell. And since it couldn't be the latter, then it had to be the first. She locked her car and trotted quickly down the street, vaguely disturbed by two narrow alleys she had just passed, and by the ominous darkness behind her. She turned left at the corner and went up the steep cobbled street. Here there were lights, cars, strolling people. Ah, civilization. She was safe again. A block farther she turned right.

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Here it was. El Patio de Sam. A cluster of what appeared to be young artists stood by the doorway with drinks and cigarettes in their hands, talking. Alana squinted into the bar, searching for Sadash, but she couldn't see him. He was probably having trouble finding parking, too. She stood nervously by the entrance, distractedly aware of the leering glances she got from the men. She didn't want to be misunderstood, taken for a classy prostitute. So many women went to bars looking for company. Then she saw him approaching. Alana held her breath. Here it was again, that odd vertiginous sensation of closeness, of intimacy. For a fraction of a second his face seemed to glow, to acquire that subtle opalescence she had seen the night of the opening, like a quick prismatic flash in the distance. What was it? A trick of her vision? A devious effect created by the fluorescent lights of the street? It had to be an illusion. And yet, she had seen it, she was sure of it. Sadash smiled, coming to her side, and Alana pictured herself standing on tiptoe and kissing the dimple on his face. The image was clear and vivid in her mind. She pushed it aside, feeling a hot wave wash over her face. "Have you been waiting long?" he asked. "Oh, no, just a minute or two." He glanced over her shoulder at the restaurant. "Are you hungry? If you're hungry, we can go into the restaurant. It's not twelve yet. I think they're still serving food." 98

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Imagine, thinking of food at a time like this! She was going to have trouble just sipping her drink, with him in front of her. "No, thank you, I'm not hungry." "Me neither. But let's go into the restaurant, anyway. It's a lot nicer there," he said. His hand closed around her naked arm—again that tingly coolness, that subtle possessiveness— and he led her into the restaurant. The restaurant was a big square open patio adorned with tall green plants set in large ceramic pots. Naturally, it was almost empty at this late hour. A waiter showed them to a table and asked what they would like to drink. "I'll have a glass of wine, please. Red, blood-red," Alana said, leaning her elbows on the table and her chin on her crossed hands. She saw Sadash's eyes momentarily widen. "Did I say anything wrong?" He smiled. "Just curious at your choice of words. The reddest of wines can never be blood-red," he said. "To tell you the truth I don't even know why I said that," Alana said. "A Coca-Cola for me, please," Sadash said to the waiter. After the waiter left them, Alana said, "Now is my turn to be curious about your choice of words. Coca-Cola. No one says Coca-Cola anymore. They just say Coke." "What are you talking about? Coca-Cola. Coca-Cola. It sorts of rolls off your tongue. I love that word." For a moment they just looked at each other, smiling. "It's so strange, being here together," she finally said, though she herself wasn't quite sure what she meant by this. 99

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"Strange? Don't tell you're not used to ... being asked out," he said. "Well ... let's just say I'm a little antisocial." "Then we have one thing in common." "You're antisocial? How can someone who's antisocial be such a good dancer?" "Touché. Let's just say I have my moments. But usually I prefer staying at home and reading a good book." "Really? I love books. All kinds of books. Though I have to say horror books are my weakness. The only problem is I can't sleep afterwards. I know it's childish, but I get scared. I get..." she began, her eyes involuntarily avoiding his, "...nightmares." "The power of suggestion. Too much imagination." "Or the sign of a weak mind." "No. Too much imagination is never the sign of a weak mind. Take my word for it." "Well, I'll take that as a compliment. Thank you. What about you? What kind of books do you like?" "Oh, all kinds of books, too. History, philosophy, theology. In fiction I can't say I like horror books very much. I prefer detective novels. Actually, I'm quite addicted to them. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie..." "I love Conan Doyle and Christie! I've read all of their books." "What about horror authors? Which one is your favorite?" "Horror authors?" she said, a bit startled. Why was she suddenly uncomfortable? There was one author she adored, more than all the others—Bram Stoker. But for some 100

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unexplainable reason admitting this to him made her feel guilty. His eyes were intently fixed on hers. "Stephen King," she lied. Partly lied. She rather liked King, too. At that moment the waiter came with their drinks. As soon as the waiter put her wine on the table Alana took a long, generous drink. What in hell was wrong with her? She suddenly felt as if she hadn't had any liquid in two days. "I didn't realize I was so thirsty," she said apologetically, licking her lips. The wine went straight to her head like a shot of some powerful drug. She saw he moistened his lips, too, though his Coca-Cola still lay untouched. In a second everything around her seemed to acquire an eerie, surrealistic quality. "Tell me more about yourself, Alana," Sadash said, leaning closer to her over the table. "About your job. Do you like working at the restaurant?" She shrugged. "It's all right, for now. The job doesn't have anything to do with what I studied. I majored in philosophy. I just graduated this last June. I don't know. I saw the job ad in the newspaper and thought I'd give it a try. It's fun, to dress like that and everything. And the salary is good. But I think next year I may go for my master's degree. After these last few weeks working at the restaurant there's one thing I've found out for sure—I'm the academic type." He smiled. He seemed eager for her, for her words. "Tell me more. I want to hear more about yourself. Everything." 101

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"Everything? Are you sure you want to get bored? I hate talking about myself," she complained. Yet she was smiling, secretly pleased. "Nothing about you could possibly bore me," he said. "How can you know that? You don't know me." She found herself admiring his eyes. The restaurant was brightly lit, and for the first time she was able to see their true color. They were splendid. The hell, a man had no business with eyes like that! Deep-set and very light brown and speckled with luminous green and yellow flecks which appeared to flicker and vibrate as he moved his head under the lights. Their luminous hue was heightened by the dusky tan of his skin. "Can I be honest with you?" he asked. "Please be," she said. "When I first saw you, the night of the opening, I was immediately drawn to you. It wasn't just your pretty face. It was something else, an intensity in your face and in your eyes, a sadness directed at yourself and at the rest of the world around you, as if you were carrying a heavy load on your shoulders. This instantly intrigued me, because it made me think you didn't have the slightest idea what this load was. I felt I understood you, and even though we didn't know each other, I felt very close to you ... unnaturally so." Alana listened, a bit baffled. Should she tell him what she had thought about him in that instant, when the yellow light of his eyes had seemed to pierce and scan her very soul? But she didn't have to tell him, for he seemed to have read her thoughts. 102

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"I felt the same impression coming from you. When our eyes met I felt a ... connection between us. Actually, I'm not exactly sure what I'm saying. I hope I'm not sounding stupid," he said, smiling rather sheepishly, though his eyes were quite solemn and keenly fixed on hers. Such a contrast, those demonically slanted brows, that soft warm smile. "Of course, I can be totally wrong. Was I wrong, to have thought this?" "I don't know..." she said. "I was drunk that night. That probably explains the expression on my face. I get very depressed when I drink, not to say totally idiotic. I shouldn't drink." As if to prove her point she downed more of her wine. Then she said, "I'm not sure what I felt when I saw you. Your face looked ... not familiar, but ... I don't know." She let out a wry laugh. "I thought I was hallucinating." Then she added, as though telling him a secret, "You know ... I went to Turkey once." "Really?" Alana nodded. "Twelve years ago. With my family—my mother and uncle, anyway." The image of her mother's face flooded her mind. In spite of herself, she felt a pang of grief. "I haven't been there in years," he said. "Where in Turkey did you go?" "We went to Istanbul. You know, on one of those organized tours. We spent a week there." With his fingertip he traced the round edge of his glass. The ice had begun to melt in his Coke. "What did you think of it? You must have been too young to enjoy it." 103

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The image of the bazaar sprang into her mind. "Yes ... yes, you're right. I was only ten. I didn't have a great time. I remember that. It was very hot and crowded. But if I were to go now it'd be different. I'm fascinated with the Middle East. Its history and mythology. I minored in history at the university. Specifically, Middle Eastern history. I took many courses in mythology, too. I think it's fascinating." "Tell me about your family." "My family?" She shrugged. "There's nothing much to tell. My father died when I was two years old. He had cancer. But I was too small, I don't remember him. After that my uncle— my mother's brother—came and lived with us. He became like my father. We were very close. We are, actually, very close. But he lives in France now. He's a fashion designer." "What about your mother?" My mother ... "My mother? She died when I was thirteen. There was an accident..." Alana's voice was calm yet restrained, an edge of ice in it. "She drowned in the pool. She mixed some sedatives with alcohol and she drowned in the pool. It was an accident." "I'm sorry. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to." "No, it's okay. Really. I mean, I can't turn my back on the facts. I faced reality a long time ago. The reality of death." "It must have been very difficult for you." "Yes ... Uncle Angelo took me on a long trip to Europe. He was totally devastated. He thought the trip would help us forget. But you can never forget something like that, can you? I might as well tell you she was an alcoholic. I don't 104

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think that I ever came to know her." She gave him a bitter smile. "I'm sorry. You must think I'm crazy, don't you? Talking to you about my mother's death and smiling. But I always cover my emotions with a smile, even though I'm dying inside. I don't know why, I just do." His voice was soft, soothing. "I know. And I regret I asked you about this. The last thing I meant was to make you unhappy." As if she hadn't heard him, she said, "She began drinking after my father's death. But I was just a child. I couldn't have helped her. I didn't even realize it until much, much later." "Never blame yourself for it," Sadash said, almost a command. "You were just a child. There's nothing you could have done about it." Alana finished her wine. Then she lifted her empty glass at him in self mockery. "The ironic thing is I love drinking," she said, putting the glass back on the table. "I should hate alcohol. But I love it. I perfectly love it!" She knew part of her only wanted to prove that she could control her drinking, that she could enjoy her wine and rum and Coke without ever becoming dependant. Yet another part of her froze with fear at the possibility of turning into her mother. "A few drinks here and there can never harm you. It's the obsession with the past what can harm you. And the past is what you're still carrying on your shoulders. That's what I perceived, when I first saw you. That heavy load on your shoulders ... it's the past." "Maybe," she said. Then a haunting memory came to her thoughts. Disturbing words that an old woman had told her in 105

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Boston. Words that had confused and enraged her, and that, even though she had forced herself to ignore, still had the talismanic power to baffle her. She later had told Valeria about it, and Valeria had been stunned. Then upset and angry. She hated to see Alana sad and depressed, and had told her to discard the whole thing as the ravings of an old woman. "What is it?" Sadash said, seemingly curious by the sudden expression on her face. "No, it's nothing. I was just remembering something. I can tell you, it's no secret. It's something that a woman, a gypsy woman, told me in Boston three years ago. "She was a palm reader. I'm very curious about palmreaders, not that I must believe what they might tell me. Anyway, we were at a fair and a friend urged me to try my luck and go inside the gypsy's tent. I was a little amazed, actually. The gypsy told me many things that were true, about my past, about my family, about my plans for the future. It's true that many of the things she said could have been applied to half the population of the world, but the thing is, she seemed good, she impressed me a bit. And then ... she told me the most incredible thing. She said that my mother had been killed. I told her that my mother was indeed dead, but that it had been an accident, that she had drowned. But she shook her head. She told me she couldn't see the details clearly in her mind, but that my mother had been killed. Whether accidentally or not, she didn't know. But that she had been killed by someone." Alana stared at him, her brows furrowed in bewilderment. "Really strange, isn't it?" 106

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"Very." "I didn't believe her. I didn't want to believe her, but you know how it is. Words like those aren't easily forgotten. And since many of the things she had told me in the beginning were true ... well, you can understand my bafflement." Sadash seemed thoughtful. "Did she tell you anything else?" "She didn't have the chance. I paid her and left the tent. I was deeply upset. She confused me." He sighed, leaning back against the chair. He was smiling, but it was a sorrowful smile. Alana laughed. "Don't look like that. It isn't your fault, you know." He muttered something under his breath. "What did you say?" she said. "Nothing. I don't want you to talk about sad things anymore. It makes me depressed. Let's talk about something else." "Yes. Let's talk about you for a change." But Sadash hardly said much. He said he wrote programs. He said he had his own computer software firm in Miami and that he was in the process of opening a branch here in San Juan. X-Net was the name. He was vague about his family, in fact he didn't give her much chance to ask him about himself. She was aware of it. He turned the conversation toward music, then toward law and religion and the high crime situation in San Juan. "Maybe there's justice on another planet," Alana said. "But not here. I hate the police force; I hate judges and lawyers 107

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and anything that has to do with law and order because, for me, there isn't any law and order. I believe in vigilantism. I believe is right to take the law into your own hands. And I hate religion. I was educated in private Catholic schools all my life, but I hate religion. Religion is based on hate. It was created to control and separate people." Sadash laughed. "Is there anything you don't hate?" he said. "I don't know," she said. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound insulting or anything. Are you a Muslim? Just because I'm not religious doesn't mean I don't respect other people's beliefs." At this he grinned savagely. "You little liar. You're perfectly contemptuous of them!" Alana flushed. How did he guess? He was right! "Don't worry, my religious days are long gone," he said, reassuring her. "I've seen too much gore and horror to believe that religions are nothing but weapons of war and destruction." "I once wrote a poem about it," she ventured, made bold by the wine. He gave her an intimate smile. "Tell me," he said. "It's not a real poem, just a stupid little thing," she said. "Let me be the judge." Her eyes widened. "Now? Here?" "Why not? I'm dying of curiosity, Alana," he said. The way he spoke her name ... so luring, so intimate. Involuntarily her eyes darted to the unbuttoned part of his shirt, to his hairy chest. For a giddying second she pictured herself snuggling against it, kissing it, touching it intimately. 108

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Her eyes dropped down to the table, full heat gushing over her. He was gazing expectantly at her, smiling, leaning slightly forward over the table with his long arms folded against it. "Don't be shy," he said, almost a whisper. "All right," she finally said. In a melodramatic self-mocking voice she began: It is the effect of a dying world when figures dressed in black say, 'God is Good, Man is Bad.' Reality inverts that version. Grey cells cry, 'Man is Good, God is Fiction!'" "As clever as it is short," he said. "You really like it?" "I love it," he said again, rather passionately. "So you don't believe in God?" "Not in the God created by men and religions. But there has to be something else, some immense power or energy. When I'm drunk, I think there's nothing, absolutely nothing. But I really get awful when I'm drunk. My common sense tells me there has to be something." 109

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He asked her many things, about her friends, her hobbies, her tastes, her four years in Boston. She talked and talked, and every time she came to a stop, Sadash asked her something else. He was insatiable. And every time Alana tried to turn the conversation in his direction he would skillfully manage to turn it back to her again. "Sadash!" she finally protested. "Enough about me! I hate talking about myself. I don't know how, but you tricked me. I don't know how you've got this much out of me. You hypnotized me! I do really hate talking about myself. And what about you? You've hardly told me anything about yourself!" "Don't be so impatient. You'll learn everything about me soon enough." "What do you mean, soon? Don't be mysterious. I hate mystery." He shook his head reprovingly. "There you go, lying again. You love mystery." Still that gently taunting smile on his face. He reached for her hand and held it between his, then he turned her palm up and looked at it. Alana didn't resist him, startled and all of a sudden quite breathless. She let out a nervous little laugh. "What are you doing? Reading my palm? You already know about my palmreading experience." One long index finger traced her life line. Again that tingly coolness, as though he had just come out of an airconditioned place. But, ah, so comforting, so pleasurable... A convulsed shiver ran through her. She stiffened. "Well, will I live long?" she said. 110

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"Didn't the gypsy woman tell you?" he drawled. "No. She said that's one thing she never tells her customers—the hour of their deaths." He looked at her. "You said when you first saw me, my face seemed familiar. Why?" he asked, his index finger tracing the lines in her palm. "I didn't say that. Did I say that?" And yet she was thinking, Yes, I know I saw you. And I know when and where. In the bazaar in that dark country and in my nightmares. But since it cannot be possible, since it cannot be true, then it must be an illusion, or a dream. "I was mistaken," she said. Then the most incredible thing happened. She heard him say, "You're not mistaken, my little angel. And you know it." But his mouth had not moved. The words had flashed strongly and clearly in her mind, but her ears had not heard a thing. But this was impossible. Still another illusion, her mind playing tricks on her again. And yet she was so sure, the message had felt so real! Either she was becoming insane or ... this was really happening! But how to believe something so implausible? There was no other realistic explanation; it had to be the power of suggestion. The fact was, even though she was in love with the supernatural, she was by nature a highly skeptical being. Narrowing her eyes, she studied his face for a second. But it was an inscrutable mask. Impossible to say what lay behind that little smile, that melancholic curve of his mouth. She glanced at his index finger moving on her palm. What was he doing? Trying to hypnotize her as experts hypnotized 111

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alligators, by rubbing them? She was beginning to feel lethargic, as though she were being slowly sedated with an opium serum. He laughed. Then he turned over her hand, kissed it, and gave it back to her. His beautifully drawn lips, full and sensual, felt oddly moist and cool and hot at the same time, like menthol. She suddenly realized they were the only customers left in the restaurant. Only the waiters were moving back and forth around them, cleaning and tidying up the place. Sadash glanced at his watch. "It's one o'clock. Maybe we should leave, before they throw us out," he said. He got up from the chair and extended his hand. She swallowed hard. "You didn't tell me how long I'll live," she said, reluctant to leave, locking her hand into his. There was a dark twinkle in his yellow eyes. "That's a purely relative question, my little poet. It depends on your definition of living," he said. And he led her out of the restaurant and into the warm and shimmering street. "Well, as the cliché goes: Thank you for a lovely night," she told him outside. "Though I'd say interesting is the word." "I want to see you again," he said. "Tomorrow." "Tomorrow?" "Same time as today. Eleven-fifteen. In the club," he said, his deep voice irresistibly inviting. "I don't work tomorrow," she said. "We could meet earlier. At eight?"

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How to say no? Yet an indescribably panicky feeling took possession of her. She suddenly wanted to run away, to get as far away from him as possible. He seemed pleased. "Okay. At eight. Let me walk you to your car." "Oh, no, that's not necessary," she quickly said. "It's not far away. Besides, there's still people in the streets, and you parked your car in the exact opposite direction. There's no need for you to come with me. Really, it's okay." And she thought: He's dangerous. "It'd only be a pleasure," he said. "No, thank you. Thank you, but you really don't have to." I don't want to be in a dark street with you. No, no, no! "Aren't you afraid going by yourself?" She lifted her chin in defiance. "Afraid? Me? The only thing I'm afraid of is my own imagination." He nodded slowly, smiling. Then he shrugged, casually slipping his hands into his pockets. "All right, see you tomorrow then," he said. "Bye-bye." He turned on his heels and stalked off . Somewhat disappointed, she watched him walking down the street until he turned and disappeared round the corner. Not once did he look back. She hastened in the opposite direction and turned left at the corner, all the while deep in thought, going over the date in her mind. His gestures, his words, his smile. He was like a devil, with those sinister slanted brows, those eyes which resembled golden talismans. His lips were made to be kissed. 113

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To be bitten. Yes, to be bitten. She wanted to bite him, to pierce the pink flesh and draw blood from those lips, to drink the blood. She halted her thoughts, stunned. But she couldn't recall any time she had been so agitated. She was almost in cold sweat and her temples were throbbing. A strange image flooded her mind. That of a great white shark devouring a seal, its jaw viciously jerking from left to right to tear the bloody flesh. That's how she felt. Yes, quite literally, that's how she felt. She should have let him accompany her to her car. God knows what would have happened. She wished him here now. She continued down the street in long quick strides, then turned right at the end of the block, completely absorbed in her thoughts, hardly aware that by this time all trace of human beings had been left behind, that it was perfectly dark and deserted and quiet. A sound. Ahead of her. Subtle and vague. Alana stopped, glued to the ground. She glanced behind her. Nothing. If the sound had been behind her she would have dashed to her car at the speed of light. But the sound had come from ahead, where there were those two little alleys on the right. She held her breath, clutching her purse tightly against her chest. Nothing, don't be silly. Don't be stupid. It's nothing. Probably a cat. Walk quickly, yes, that's it. Walk quickly. To the car. Get to the car. There was no reason to be afraid, was there? She had walked these streets at night hundreds of 114

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times and she had never had a bad experience in her life. She had never been robbed; she had never been mugged. Even in Boston, walking at night, she had always felt strangely secure and protected. Bad things couldn't happen to her, they happened to other people, in the news, in the movies. Actually, many times she had fantasized about being mugged and then taking out a gun or a knife and sending the attacker to the other world. Very vile and sadistic, these little fantasies, for she always saw herself immensely enjoying her revenge. Oddly, she wasn't afraid of the actual mugger. What froze her blood were the abstract whispers and silhouettes of the dark. The hidden menace. Yes, that's it, keep walking, very good, don't even turn your head, just pass the alley. But just before she was to pass the alley a dark silhouette sprang out of it and blocked her path. Alana gasped, flinching back, her purse still tightly clasped against her chest. Dark greasy hair, bloodshot eyes that were anxious and disoriented. Just a kid, maybe sixteen, seventeen. The glimmer of a knife flashed before her eyes. "Just give me the purse, okay? That's all I want, the purse. Come on, give it to me!" he hissed in a thick, malicious voice, tightly holding the knife in one shaky hand. "I don't have any money with me," Alana lied, shocked by the icy steadiness of her own voice. Her heart, though, was ready to blow up and shatter her ribcage. "And don't even think I'm going to give you my Visa card." Incredible, these words, yet they did come out of her mouth. 115

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Obviously the kid was not expecting this. His eyes widened with incredible meanness. His mouth twisted in a vicious grimace and he was about to say something when a clattering sound behind him made him stop. A distinct sound—empty cans being kicked across the pavement. But there was no one in the street. The noise appeared to have come from the other alley, the alley that was still ahead of them. The kid swung slightly to the side and turned his head in the direction of that alley. Taking advantage of his sudden confusion, Alana pushed him with all her strength and started running as fast as she could toward her car. Behind her, less than five seconds later, Alana heard a quick, short scream. Then quickly after that a muffled scream. Panting and breathless, the clinking of her heels ringing in her ears, she glanced over her shoulder only to realize with shocked disbelief that the kid was not following her. In fact, he seemed to have vanished and was nowhere in sight. Alana stopped running and swung around to stare at the dark, and now empty street, this time truly terrified. What the hell happened? But she knew. She knew! She knew that the scream had come from that kid's mouth. Someone had surprised him. Someone had hurt him. Someone had dragged him back into the alley. She was sure of it. Silence. Except for the unsteady sound of her own breathing. She turned her head in the direction of her car. She could even see it. Yes, there it was, her Suzuki Samurai, parked there at the end of the block. Only she still had to pass the 116

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other alley, the one where the clattering of the empty cans had come from. It was crazy, she couldn't move, her legs were shaking, nailed to the ground. She was standing in the middle of the street between the two alleys. And suddenly she felt like laughing. Yes, like laughing hysterically like a hyena. The whole thing felt like a bad joke. Finally she gathered sufficient courage to begin trotting toward her car, trying not to think about what had just happened back there with that kid, her pace quickening with each step. By the time she was about to pass the other alley she was running. It all happened in a matter of seconds. Two steel arms grabbed her and lifted her off the ground and swung her in the air and into the enveloping darkness of the alley. She gasped, so petrified she was unable to utter a sound. It was as if she had been suddenly knocked to the ground by a truck, so perfect was her shock. Before she had time to scream, a big strong hand closed over her mouth. "My daring little fool!" A deep and husky whisper, full of passion and vehemence. "You wished me here, and here I am." And a second later she found herself pinned against the wall and staring wildly into his face. One arm was clasped around her waist, the other still pressed over her mouth. "Shhhh." He was smiling, but it was not a gentle smile like before. It was feral, and the way his amber eyes glinted in the darkness was feral, too. Like the panther, just like the 117

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panther! But it was him again, and in spite all logic she was beginning to feel safe again. "Shhhh. Calm down. Your heart is making wild music in my ears, your lovely little heart," he said. So soothing the sound of his voice, like a love song. "Sadash!" she gasped when he released her mouth, her hands against his chest. She tried to push him away, but he only pressed himself harder against her, crushing her against the wall. "That's my name," he softly mocked. "What ... what are you doing? What are you doing here? I was just ... there was a kid there. He ... he tried to mug me. I..." she stammered, panting, pausing for breath. "There was a noise, and then I pushed him and started running and then—I think something happened to him. He screamed and then ... and then when I looked back he was not there anymore. I think..." "You're not making any sense," he whispered in her ear. "I told you I should have walked you to your car." She felt his hot breath against her ear, felt the rough early morning beard on his chin against her face. She felt his right hand closing over the side of her neck. How could he had seemed cold to the touch before? His face was hot, his hands were hot. An anguished moan escaped from her throat. "Sadash, please ... what ... what are you doing? I cannot..." her voice broke. Shutting her eyes, she turned her head to the side and made a final weak effort to push him away. 118

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But now he was softly biting her ear, his sharp teeth playing with her lobe. Torture, that's what it was, endless torture. A convulsed shiver ran through her, once, twice, at his touch. She moaned again. His right hand slid over the nape of her neck and with his thumb he began to stroke that pulsing part of her neck just below the jaw where the artery swells and throbs. "You ... you followed me ... why did you follow me?" she managed to ask, half opening her eyes, her voice just above a whisper. But no coherent thoughts were left. Her mind was reeling. Vaguely she heard him chuckle. "I told you. I came to your call," he breathed heavily, kissing and softly biting her lobe, his thumb stroking and rubbing her swelling artery, so terribly sensitive, this little spot. He turned her face to him and began to kiss her eyelids, her nose, her lips, her chin, his mouth scorching and welting every inch of her flesh. Then, with only his left arm wrapped around her waist, he lifted her off the ground until they were eye to eye. She might as well had been made of air, so light she felt in his arms. So strong, unnatural, so strong. She clasped her hands around his neck and fixed her half-closed eyes on his mouth, her cheeks glowing, totally lost in him. "You can bite me now, my beautiful one," he whispered, a twinge of mockery in his voice. Then he murmured something in a language she couldn't understand. Alana moaned softly. A bit shyly, she opened her mouth and searched for his lips. She kissed him fully and deeply. She spent a long time kissing him. Then, hardly aware of 119

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what she was doing, she bit his lower lip. Yes, bite him, bite him, puncture the flesh, cut the flesh, feel the blood, suck the blood, suck it, suck it, drink it, the most delicious ... ah ... no words to describe it ... ah, luscious, the most exquisite ... ! But now he was pushing her away, chuckling again, murmuring words in that strange foreign language which she knew had to be Turkish. No, no, please, a little bit more, don't be cruel, you're cruel, I love you, my darling, my love, don't be cruel... The sensation was not distinct. Her whole body clenched itself involuntarily. For a moment a fierce wave of pain coursed from her tongue and down through her limbs. A pain that was pleasure. She shut her eyes and dug her nails in the back of his neck and felt her blood beat once again. Then the most sublime, most ecstatic ripples of lethargy began to wash over her. She could die like this. In love. She desired to die like this. In the midst of this rapture she saw herself swimming, drifting, floating in a peaceful sea of a multidimensional kaleidoscope of colors, totally helpless, her mind gone, her will gone, with only this intensely rising languor to guide her. Yes ... ah, yes ... go on and on, my sweet love ... don't ever let it end ... don't ever, ever, ever let it end ... I love you ... so much... Maybe hours, maybe a minute went by. With a sudden movement, Sadash pulled her away and turned his back to her, leaving her standing completely dazed and confused against the wall. After a long moment, Alana found the strength to speak. "Sadash?" she whispered. 120

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Silence. Heavily she shoved her hair away from her face. She swallowed, tentatively scraped her sore tongue with the edge of her teeth, touched her swollen bruised lips with the tip of her fingers. "Sadash?" Alana whispered louder, moving behind him and touching his shoulder. She held his arm and gently tried to make him look at her, but he sharply turned his head away from her, as if he didn't want her to see his face. It didn't matter that she had almost been mugged or that she was standing in a dark alley at nearly two o'clock in the morning. It didn't matter that in the other alley a kid had probably been killed. The only thing she was conscious of was Sadash's proximity. His beautiful face, his strong arms, the alluring power of both menace and safety that radiated from him. Finally he turned and looked at her, engulfing her in his arms so that her own arms were prisoners under his embrace. A strong, tender embrace. And she wanted to be his prisoner. She clasped her arms around his waist and for a long moment leaned her face against his chest, holding her breath and closing her eyes. He kissed her hair. Then he began to caress it, running his fingers through the long silky waves, now somewhat tangled. She listened to his throbbing heart, listened to his breathing, relished herself in the slightly unsteady rise and fall of his chest. She gazed up at him and gave him a shy smile, lifting one hand to touch his lips. "Did I hurt you?" She traced the curve of his lower lip with her index finger. 121

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"I'll survive," he said. But there was no apparent change in his lips, not even a little swelling. They were perfectly intact as before. Alana frowned, staring at his mouth. "My God, I don't know what's real or not real anymore. I don't know if I'm awake or dreaming. I thought I bit you. I did bite you. But there's nothing on your lips." "I have very healthy lips. The little cells regenerate themselves at the speed of light," he said. Again that irresistible smile, that subtle trace of mockery in his voice. "I'm serious!" "Actually, you did bite me. But softly, you didn't cut the flesh. Otherwise I'd be wounded now, wouldn't I?" "But I know I cut you. I even..." she stopped herself. "You even ... what?" I even tasted your blood. "Nothing," she said. "Dear God, this is crazy. Being here, with you. What am I doing here with you? How did you follow me? I didn't see you behind me. But you were not behind me, were you? You were ahead of me. How did you know where I had parked my car?" "I was behind you. But I went up over the rooftops." "I'm serious!" she protested again. She tried to push him away, her hands flatly pressed against his chest. "So am I," he said, his arms tightening around her. She had to laugh, anxiously, wearily. "Please, Sadash. You don't know what happened back there. Some kid, of about sixteen or seventeen, tried to rob me." "Did he?" 122

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"No, he couldn't. I pushed him and ran. I mean, there was a sudden noise of scattered cans or something and when he looked the other way I pushed him and ran off, but then while I was running away I heard a scream and looked back but he wasn't there anymore. I think someone dragged him into that other alley." "Maybe something scared him and he just ran off. Are you sure you heard a scream?" "What are you talking about? Of course I'm sure. First there was a scream, then a second later a muffled scream, as if someone had covered his mouth. You didn't hear anything?" she said. He didn't answer. He didn't shake his head. "Sadash, you're scaring the hell out of me. What were you doing in this alley? How in the world did you get in here? You must have heard something. Tell me the truth or I think I'm going to go crazy!" "I thought the only thing you were afraid of was your own imagination." "Do you belong to the Mafia or something?" He smiled. "Or something," he said, stroking her cheek with his fingers. "You should have let me walk you to your car. You have too much confidence in yourself. Look at you, the way you pushed that boy. Was he armed?" he said. "He had a pocket knife." He raised his brows. "A pocket knife! Why did you resist him? Why didn't you just give him your purse? By the way, where's your purse? Ah, here." And he picked it up from the ground and gave it to her. 123

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"I don't know why I did that. It was a suicidal thing to do. I was possessed. How do you know I resisted him?" "Your purse is here, isn't it? Which means you didn't give it to him." But she couldn't help thinking, You saw what happened, you were watching! "Do you want me to go there and check?" Sadash said when he saw the expression on her face. "Come on. Let's go. Together." And he pulled her by the hand and led her out of the alley, ignoring her feeble protests, because as much as she tried to deny it her morbid curiosity was too great and she wanted to take a look. They walked down the street until they reached the other alley. "You see? Nothing," Sadash said, gesturing with his arm toward the alley, while Alana, somewhat cowardly, craned her neck to take a good look. The alley was dark and empty, except for the scattered empty bottles and cans and crumpled papers on the ground. "That must be it. Something did scare him off, and he just took off," he said. "But what? What could have scared him off?" she said, suddenly overwhelmingly tired. What a night. This had been the strangest, most exciting night of her life. Sadash shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Maybe a ghoul," he whispered amusingly. Alana grunted under her breath. "I won't get any serious answers from you. I can't believe it, the light way you're taking all of this." 124

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"Poor Alana. When you really need that morbid imagination of yours, it is not there to help you. Or you don't let it help you. It's really so simple to believe the obvious." She stopped a moment to digest his words. "What do you mean?" "Nothing, my beautiful one," he said, throwing one arm around her shoulders and leading her back down the street toward her car. "This has been too much for you. You're tired. You worked all evening long. You almost got mugged." That's nothing compared to what we did in the alley, to how we kissed and caressed, Alana thought. This was the first time in her life she had kissed a man on the first date. Not that she was sorry. But she was overwhelmed. And the way he had surprised her, swept her with him into that dark alley ... Her total lack of will, her total surrender to a stranger, that's what shocked her. "Sadash..." she began when they were in front of her car. "Yes?" "The way we kissed back there ... I..." she said, doubtful, not sure of what she wished to say. "I hope you don't think..." "So strange to find someone so innocent, in this era and at your age," he said, stroking her cheek. She turned her head away from him. "All part of my boring existence," she muttered, not caring to put on an act and pretend what she was not. He sighed. "It makes me depressed," he said. "To think that I'll never be able to give you ... Of course, what I can give you in its place is a thousand if not a million times more 125

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magnificent. Because it's nothing, human lust. Really nothing. A three-second joke. A deceitful promise." "What do you mean?" Alana whispered, gazing intently into his eyes. "I think you know what I mean. Or you're beginning to know. Or you've always known but you keep covering it up with logical arguments and debates. Think of tonight. When you go to bed, close your eyes and see things as they really stand. Look for the obvious, for the simple, even if it seems insane. The truth often is. I've been hasty with you tonight, I've acted too fast. I thought we could go on seeing each other like this for a couple of weeks, or at least for a few days. But now the invisible boundary that separated us has been broken and I know that's going to be impossible. Patience has never been one of my greatest qualities, and right now I'm very impatient. I've waited enough, too long, for you," he said. Her black eyes couldn't move away from his. Spellbound, she listened to his words. Words that were like riddles ... But she knew ... Yes, yes, she knew.... "I'm shocking you. I'm sorry," he said, his face softening. "I don't know if I should be shocked or not," she said. "I don't think I understand the full meaning of your words." "Oh, I think you do, Alana. Everything is in your little memories, in your little fears, in your dreams, in your fantasies. How many more clues do you need?" He paused a moment, somewhat hesitantly. Then he said, "Remember when you were a child and you couldn't take your eyes off of 126

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raw meat? Remember the raw liver your mother used to buy, so fresh it still oozed blood and reeked of death?" At this she frantically tried to push him away, but he clasped her wrists and forced her to face him. "Now you're really scaring me!" Alana said. "Who the hell are you? How can you know that? How can you possibly know that!" "Of course you remember," he went on. "You sneaked into the kitchen while your mother was away and you took the liver into your hands and you licked the blood. You sucked and you licked the blood. And you didn't even grimace. Oh no, you loved it. And you loved the feel of that slippery dripping pulp in your palms." "No!" Alana blurted out, totally horrified and disgusted, yet her face was flushing, turning to deep crimson. "No! How can you possibly know that? Who are you? What kind of monster—creature—are you!" He only laughed, as though amused at her fiery response, at the energetic way in which she tried to free her wrists from his grasp. "Shhh," he lulled her. "Don't waste your energies. Don't you see it's useless to fight me?" "Let go of my wrists! I don't want to see you again—ever!" "Never ever?" "No! Never ever! I made an awful mistake. I should have never accepted your invitation. It was a mistake!" She tried her best to fight back tears, but already they were welling up in her eyes. How could a night that had begun so well end up in a supernatural nightmare? 127

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"Don't you think our relationship transcends all forms of invitation?" "Let go of my wrists. Really, I won't try to escape." "Do you really think you could, even if you tried to? Because if you do, you haven't even begun to understand," he said, but he loosened his hold on her. Badly shaken, Alana rummaged inside her purse for her keys. She wanted to run away, to escape, to hide somewhere far, far off from his sinister, alluring tendrils. "Don't forget our date tomorrow. La Cueva. Eight o'clock," he said in a casual voice, as if nothing had happened. "You're crazy!" Alana said, opening the car door and climbing in. "No more than you are, Alana. No more than you are." "My God, how can I drive under these circumstances? I'm going to have an accident," she rasped under her breath, fumbling for the ignition. "An accident? No such luck. Don't you know by now there's an archangel watching over you?" "A devil, you mean!" And she stepped on the gas pedal and sped away, keenly aware of Sadash's handsome face, smiling to himself under the silver glint of the moon.

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CHAPTER 6 By the time Alana walked into her apartment it was already a few minutes past three o'clock. The only illumination came from a side lamp by the sofa, where Valeria lay on her side, half asleep. When she heard Alana walking in she sat up and smoothed her tousled blond hair away from her forehead. She was clad in an oversized Tshirt with a picture of a pink rabbit on it, her feet naked. Her big brown eyes were groggy with sleep. "Where the hell have you been, Alana? I was so worried, I thought something happened to you," Valeria said huskily. "You were waiting for me?" Alana said, tossing her keys and purse on the coffee table and sinking onto the sofa next to Valeria. Leaning her head against the cushion, she closed her eyes and let out a long breath. "What do you think? Of course. I was so worried. I called the nightclub and they told me you had been at the bar around eleven-thirty, but after that time nobody had seen you again. Where were you? Why didn't you call me?" Alana opened her eyes. "I had a date tonight." "A date? With who? With the guy you danced with last night?" "With that one." "Damn you, why didn't you call me? Didn't you think I would be worried?" Valeria demanded. "Valeria, please," Alana pleaded wearily. 129

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"No, don't give me that. I don't think I'm asking too much. You should have called me, you should have let me know you were going to be late. I thought you had an accident or something. I always tell you when I'm going to be late." "Okay, okay." Valeria sighed, trying to control her anger yet obviously relieved that Alana was all right. "The hell with you. How am I going to get up early in the morning now?" "Didn't anybody at the nightclub see me with Sadash?" Alana said. "Sadash? No, nobody saw you with anybody. But you know that place. They said it was too crowded, they couldn't tell." There was a moment of silence. "I almost got mugged tonight," Alana said. "What? What do you mean you almost got mugged?" "Just that, that I almost got mugged. When I was walking back to my car, after the date." "But how? Where were you?" Valeria said. "We went to El Patio de Sam, then on the way back to my car a kid came out of an alley and demanded that I give him my purse. He had a pocket knife." "Were you alone? Where the hell was your date?" "Yes, I was alone. I told him it wasn't necessary to walk me to my car," Alana said. "What happened then?" "You won't believe this, but I didn't give him anything. I pushed him against the wall and ran away." "What! Are you crazy? He could have killed you!" "Well, he didn't." 130

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"And then what happened? Did he follow you?" "No ... no, he didn't follow me," Alana said after a thoughtful moment. "He changed his mind, I think. He just disappeared. I guess he left." "What do you mean, he changed his mind?" "Look, all I know is that one moment he was there, then the next, he was not. I don't know what the hell happened to him." "My God, you are crazy," Valeria muttered, shaking her head. "He could have been high on God knows what. He could have killed you. Don't you watch the news? People are killed for a lot less than that these days. What was so precious about your purse, anyway? Why didn't you just give it to him?" "Now that I look back into it, I was sort of demonically possessed when it happened. I was not afraid," Alana slowly said. "How can you joke about this?" "Oh, I'm not joking. I'm dead serious." "Well, don't expect a medal from me. I think you're crazy." "Would you have given him your purse?" "What a question. Of course! I wouldn't risk my life for anything." "It still doesn't mean he wouldn't have killed me. Even after you give them the money they kill you." "My God, you could have been raped, killed, anything. I'm so glad you're all right." And in a suddenly passionate gesture she turned to Alana and gave her a long tight hug, then a kiss on the cheek. 131

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Alana fondled Valeria's tousled hair. "I'm fine, I'm fine," she soothed, feeling warmly comforted by the green apple scent of Valeria's hair, by the softness and strength of her limbs. At the same time she was keenly aware of the reeling state of her own mind. "Well, how was your date? You little rascal, you didn't even tell me he asked to see you again," Valeria finally said, somewhat reproachfully, pulling back from her embrace, though she was trying to cheer her up. "Was it worth almost getting mugged?" "If only you knew. I had a very strange night. But I can't talk about it now. I need to sleep, and to think. Don't worry. Tomorrow. I'll tell you all about it. Tomorrow." Valeria frowned. "A strange night? How will I be able to sleep now, dying of curiosity? Tell me now, please." "Please trust me, my twin soul," Alana pleaded, the shadow of a smile on her lips. "Don't insist. I'm exhausted. But it's not that. It's just that my thoughts are a mess right now. A real mess. I wouldn't know how to begin. I wouldn't make any sense. Tomorrow I'll tell you everything. I promise." For a long moment they stared at each other, holding hands. And Alana felt as she had felt so many times when they were little. A wave of sublime unity and closeness swept over her. She remembered the blood pact. She remembered all the times when their minds had seemed to merge and become as one. And suddenly everything was perfect and she knew nothing on earth could break this spell, this sacred gift. 132

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"Do you feel the connection?" Valeria whispered. "Our bond will transcend everything ... even death," Alana said, shoving off the sudden feeling of foreboding that gripped her soul. **** Alana thought she would never be able to sleep, but she slept soundly for over ten hours. It was already early afternoon when she woke, utterly glad because it was a Monday and she didn't have to go to work. She took a long hot bath. Slowly and thoughtfully, she combed and blow-dried her long hair with the utmost care. She fixed herself a light lunch and sat outside on the warm, shaded balcony to eat. And while she did all these things she thought about last night. About strange little incidents of her childhood which only she herself knew about. About the man she had seen in Turkey, about the vividness of her recent dreams or nightmares or whatever they were. The whole world suddenly seemed surreal, deceivingly innocent, a trap. Her thoughts streamed round and round in a whirlwind. While the situation appeared highly fantastic and irrational, the most judicious side of her told her there had to be a natural, sensible explanation for everything. But her other side, that dark side that eternally haunted her, that relentlessly nagged and gnawed at her insides like a starving rodent; that other part, hammering at her brain against all common sense and logic, told her that her wildest imaginings were the most obvious, the most simple. But was 133

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she to believe that her life was a fictional horror story? And even if she did, there was one other question that obsessed her: Why her? It was as if her sanity, like a hot and golden sun, was slowly drifting away, leaving her alone in a cloud of chilling darkness. What I can give you in its place is a thousand if not a million times more magnificent ... Look for the obvious, for the simple ... I've waited long enough, too long, for you ... Remember the raw liver? ... Don't you know by now there's an archangel watching over you?... No, no, no, no! She refused to believe it. Alana shut her eyes and pressed her hands against either side of her head, as if by doing so she were able to cast away the devil's voice. **** Miguel popped his head into her office and gave her a naughty grin. "Looks like we'll be staying late again," he said in a conspiring whisper. When Valeria ignored him, his face turned more serious. She was working at the computer, her eyes fixed intently on the screen, seemingly studying something of the utmost importance. Her desk was covered with project plans, their edges curved upward at the corners. "Aren't you done with that yet?" Miguel said, going behind her to glance at the screen. Valeria grunted, her right hand working with the mouse.

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"That's good," he said approvingly, nodding slowly at the screen. Then he glanced at his watch. "Are you hungry? We might as well order a pizza or something. It's five o'clock." After a moment Valeria snapped out of her spell and leaned back against her chair. She bit her lower lip, looking contentedly at the screen. She was pleased with her work, too. The hotel remodeling project was going great, though they were behind schedule and everybody involved in it had their nerves rubbed raw. Valeria sighed, stretching her arms above her head to ease the muscular pain of her back and shoulders. "I was planning on going home early tonight," she told him. Miguel shook his head. "Can't do it, baby. We're too far behind." "Who else's staying?" Valeria said. "Sofia and Madeline and Rudy." "You dictator. You think we're all your slaves, don't you?" "Yes. And you love it." "I can work at home," she said, her thoughts shifting to Alana. "Why? I prefer to have you here. With me." Valeria threw him a lecherous look. "What about Sofia and Madeline and Rudy?" Miguel laughed. He seemed shocked. "Does everything revolve around love and passion for you? We'll only work." Valeria smiled. "All work and no fun, huh? Okay. Till what time will we stay?" "Till you finish with those lobby plans." 135

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"Are you crazy? There's no way I can finish them tonight. I need at least two more days." "You see? We're too far behind, Valeria. All the more reason to stay tonight. I'm not giving you any hour limit. Just do as much as you can, okay?" Then he added caressingly, "You know I never want to tire you too much." "You pervert," she whispered under her breath. He laughed. "Why were you planning on going home early tonight? Did you have any plans?" She shrugged. "No. I just wanted to have a talk with Alana. With our different work schedules we've hardly been able to talk during the past two weeks. I'm a little worried about her." "Why?" "I don't know ... I'm not sure." She shrugged again, deciding to keep her thoughts to herself. "It's nothing specific. I just miss her." "You live together!" "I know, I know. Come on, you know what I mean." Then she said, "She was nearly mugged by a junkie last night. Close to El Patio de Sam." And she described to him what Alana had told her. After listening to Valeria, Miguel tilted his head to one side, somewhat thoughtfully. "Hmm. Maybe it's a coincidence. Did you read the newspaper this morning?" "I didn't even have time to brush my hair this morning. I was late, remember?"

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"They found a dead teenager in that same area this morning. On Amanita Street. Sixteen years old. His neck was broken. Just snapped. A junkie." "Really? So what are you thinking? That it could be the same kid?" Miguel shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe. Or maybe not. Old San Juan is full of junkies. Did Alana mention the name of the street?" "No. I'll ask her," Valeria slowly said, her perfectly manicured fingers distractedly playing with a pencil. "Well, I'm going to tell Sofia to order a pizza," he said, walking over to the door. "Mushrooms and peppers?" "And extra cheese," she said. "Alana said it happened in an alley?" he said, turning to look at her from the doorway. "They found this kid on the roof of one of the buildings. Strange, huh? On the roof. Well, the dictator, as you say, will be in his office. Just drop in if you need anything, and I mean anything." And he winked at her and left her office. Valeria smiled lustfully to herself. For a moment her eyes lingered on the empty doorway. The she picked up the phone and dialed her apartment. After four rings Alana answered. "Hello?" "Alana?" "Ah, it's you." "Were you sleeping?" Valeria asked. "No, no, I was just lying down on the balcony." "Are you okay?" "I'm fine. Why do you ask?" 137

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"I don't know. I have this strange feeling in my gut. I don't know what it is. It's very weird, as if something bad is going to happen." "Stop being such a drama queen, Valeria. After last night I'm already shaky enough." "I feel as if I should be with you now." "Maybe you've been picking up my telepathic signals. I've been thinking about you a lot today. We'll talk when you come home." "Alana ... Please tell me the truth. Have you been keeping things from me?" Valeria said. There was a silence. "No ... Why do you ask me that?" Alana said. "I don't know. I told you, I just have this weird feeling. After last night..." "When are you coming?" "I'll try to finish up as soon as possible." "You're working late again?" Alana said, the disappointment in her voice cutting through Valeria like an ice pick. "Just tell me that you need to see me—right now—and I'll talk to Miguel and be there in ten minutes," Valeria vehemently said, meaning it. "No ... no, there's no need to be so drastic. I'll wait for you to come. At what time, about ten?" "I guess around that time, yes. But I'll try to get out of here earlier than that ... okay?" "Okay." "Alana?" Valeria said. 138

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"What?" "Last night when that kid tried to rob you ... Do you know the name of the street where it happened?" After a pause, "No, I don't know. Why do you ask?" "It's nothing. It's just ... Maybe you should watch the news. Watch the news, at six." "What happened?" Alana said, this time a twinge of alarm in her voice. "I'm not..." "Someone found him. He's dead, isn't he?" "How do you know?" "I don't know how I know. I just know. What happened to him?" "Wait a minute, Alana. You told me last night the kid ran off after you pushed him..." "What happened to him?" Alana cut in. "Someone snapped his neck. Would you mind telling me now what really happened last night. Why did you lie to me?" "I didn't lie to you. I didn't know what happened to him. After I pushed him and ran off I heard a scream, but when I looked back he was nowhere in sight. I knew the scream had come from him, but I didn't know what had happened. He vanished! I went back to the alley to look, but he wasn't there." "Wait, wait, wait. Let me get this straight. You went back to the alley to look? Who the devil did you think you were, Zorro?" Valeria said, as if she couldn't believe anybody could be so stupid. "I wasn't alone. Sadash was with me." 139

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"Last night you told me he wasn't with you!" "He wasn't—at the beginning. He came later. Valeria, just tell me one thing. Where did they find him?" "I don't know," Valeria snapped, frustrated. "I don't know the details. On top of one of the buildings. On the roof." "On the roof!" "Would you mind telling me what the hell's going on? The whole story? I know you're keeping things from me. What happened last night?" Silence. "That does it," Valeria said. "I'm coming home right now." "No! I mean, don't be silly. We don't have to panic about this. Just finish up whatever you have to do. We'll talk when you come home. I'm okay, really. I'm fine." "That guy—Sadash—he's involved in this, isn't he?" Another silence. "Who is he?" Valeria said. "I don't know. To tell you the truth, I don't even know his last name." "You don't know?" Valeria sighed. Then she muttered under her breath, "This is frustrating." "Listen, just finish up and come home, okay? I'll be waiting for you with a bottle of wine," Alana said wearily, and hung up. Slowly, Valeria put down the receiver. Something was wrong. It wasn't just this little street murder. Something larger was terribly wrong. And it involved that man, Sadash. Yet what it could actually be she couldn't fathom. Sadash. 140

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What a curious name. Foreign yet silky like a caress. She wondered about its origin. Distractedly, while thinking about this, she drew a little sketch on the left-hand corner of one of the plans: the head of a panther, hissing, with its long curved fangs ready to strike. **** Of course, even before Alana watched the news, she knew. Instinctively she knew. She knew without the shadow of a doubt that the teenager who had tried to rob her was the same teenager they had found dead with a broken neck. And no matter she didn't have actual proof, no matter she hadn't actually seen the murder, she knew Sadash had killed him. She more than knew it. She felt it. And why? Because the kid had tried to hurt her? Is that what this was about? A matter of protection? Look for the obvious, look for the simple. Well, this was as obvious and as simple as it could get. Amanita Street. What an ominous name for a street. The amanita was one of the deadliest mushrooms, as it can put a man in a coma and kill in a matter of hours. Alana downed the contents of her first glass of wine. Her lips twisting in a bitter smile, she remembered how reading about deadly mushrooms had been one of her favorite pastimes as a child. She was fascinated by them, morbidly enchanted by their innocent facade and lethal attributes. She enjoyed stepping on them and crushing them with her feet. And she knew them all. Amanita muscaria and the related 141

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destroying angels.... What a beautiful name—destroying angel—and the Death Cap, another beautiful name, highly poetic.... Death Cap... But thinking about poisonous toadstools was not going to lead her anywhere. She leaned her elbows against the rail of the balcony and gazed at the darkening sky, at the golden shimmering twilight. The sun was dipping slowly behind the green mountains that made the horizon. The view was breathtaking, the sky a concoction of subtle purples and oranges and pinks, shafts of light reaching out from the dipping sun like tendrils coming from God. Yes, it was easy believing in God, looking at this. You're such a hypocrite, believing in God only when it suits you. Only when you see amazing things. Only when you're sick and in physical pain. Only when someone you've known dies. Only when you're afraid. Mami, Mami, where are you now? If you were alive... Your mother was killed ... You're wrong, she drowned, an accident ... No, no, someone killed your mother ... SOMEONE ... SOMEONE ... SOMEONE... Alana winced. She poured herself another glass of wine and took a long gulp. Take it easy, keep it cool. She needed to be coherent when Valeria arrived. On second thought, what did it matter? Drunk or not she was not going to make any sense, anyway. Sadash ... He had asked her to meet him again tonight. I will not go. No way. No, no, no. 142

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But what if she went to Amanita street? Just to take a quick look at ... what? She wasn't sure. Maybe drive past the dark alley ... drive past it and throw a quick glance upward to the roofs. She glanced at her watch. Only six-thirty. Valeria wouldn't be here till ten. She could easily drive to Old San Juan and be back long before that. Don't go. It's ... dangerous. She placed the glass of wine on the little side table and hastened into the living room for her bag and keys. She had to go over there. She had to take a look, and it might as well be now, for she knew that sooner or later she would do it. The urge was like cancer gnawing at her brain. Clad as she was, in a white T-shirt and blue shorts, her long hair falling in her eyes, she jumped into her car and a few minutes later found herself speeding on the highway. What in the devil she expected to find she didn't know. The whole thing was like a magnetic impulse, pulling her, dragging her there. Before Alana reached Old San Juan the sun had already set. As she came closer to Amanita street, slowly driving past the bars and cafes and souvenir shops, an ominous feeling took possession of her. Finally, turning left onto Amanita Street, she drove very slowly to have a better look. To her surprise, there were a few people walking on the sidewalk, and some were gathered close to the alley looking up toward the rooftops. Driving past the alley where the kid had tried to 143

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rob her, she saw the police had blocked its entrance with yellow crime scene tape. A little ahead she parked her car, leaving the ignition on . From across the street she saw that the other alley, the one where she had kissed Sadash, had been blocked with the same yellow tape. Had the police found some kind of incriminatory evidence there? She felt a stab of fear. What if the police found out that she had been there last night? She couldn't think of anything that would lead them to that conclusion, but surely the police had their ways. Maybe DNA from a trace of hair, or maybe she had left fingerprints. Unbelievable, she had been partially involved in this murder. For a long moment she just sat there and looked through the window, the air conditioning hitting her face. She wanted to get out. She wanted to get out and take a closer look. But what if there was an undercover cop around here somewhere waiting for the culprit, or culprits, to come back to the murder scene? This probably was a ridiculous thought, entirely due to reading too many detective novels. But what if it was true? Alana turned off the ignition and stepped out of the car. The night air was muggy and warm, strangely comforting after the coolness of the conditioned air. She crossed the narrow street and walked over to the first alley. The people that had gathered here to look were now gone, but nonetheless Alana halted and took a quick glimpse down the alley. She appeared casual, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her shorts. She wasn't sure what she had expected to see, but there was nothing here. She looked up toward the roof of the four144

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story building. Nothing. There were no outside metal stairs leading up to the roof. How had the kid ended up there? The news had been ambiguous about this aspect of the crime, maybe purposely so. Vaguely aware of the leering glances her legs got from some of the passers-by, Alana turned down the street in the direction of the other alley. Casually stopping again, she peered into the alley. Standing there at the farthest end of the alley, his white shirt gleaming in the darkness, was Sadash. Alana gasped, reflexively flinching back, and in the process bumped against one of the passers-by. "Whoa!" the man said in a friendly way. "Had a bit too much to drink?" But Alana gave him a disoriented, frightened look. "Are you all right?" the man asked her. "Sorry ... Just—just fine," she said. But she was looking into the alley, which was now perfectly empty. With her heart still stuck in her throat, Alana turned hurriedly back toward her car. As she was crossing the street a fast-moving convertible Jeep came up and almost ran over her. The driver cursed, slamming on the brakes. But she didn't even turn her head to look at him. Right now her only aim was to get into her car and out of here. When she found herself secured inside her car, her hands tightly clasped on the wheel, she began to shake her head and chuckle softly to herself. Such a fool! The power of suggestion. That's what it had been. Nothing more than the power of suggestion. 145

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What could she do now? Go home? There was nothing here for her to see or do. And then the most awful thought sprang into her head. If she had been here last night, if she had been somehow involved in what had happened, if she had heard the victim scream, if she in fact suspected someone ... wouldn't the most honest and reasonable thing be to go to the police and tell them what had happened? It was strange, the fact that this had not occurred to her till now. Leaning her head against the seat, Alana stared across the street at the alley. But she couldn't go to the police. Not only because she felt only distrust and scorn for the police force but because the victim had not really been a "victim"—he had been a junkie who could have very well raped and murdered her last night. She remembered his voice, so malicious, and his eyes, so full of loathing. And of course, and most important, there was Sadash. The sense of bond, of trust, of loyalty that she felt towards him was overpowering. Bizarre. But then she realized the beauty of it. She simply wanted to protect him. The same way Sadash had protected her. Alana sighed. She was so tired, so mentally tired. She felt a sudden wild urge for a cigarette. She rummaged inside the glove compartment—sometimes she or Valeria left one or two around for emergencies like this—but there was nothing. Maybe she could buy a packet somewhere. She turned on the ignition and in a few minutes was out of Amanita street. For a while she drove randomly, vaguely looking for a place where she could buy the cigarettes, turning into any street that came her way. The traffic was 146

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fairly smooth and many tourists strolled on the sidewalks. They suddenly annoyed her, these tourists. There they were, cameras hung around their necks, perpetual smiles chiseled on their faces. And here she was, tormented by a murder and hallucinations. A while later she parked her car and walked into a trendy restaurant-bar to buy the cigarettes. She went directly to the bar, fished a few coins from her pocket, and asked the bartender for a pack of Marlboro Lights. There was a huge square mirror behind the bar, and as she waited for the bartender to get the cigarettes from the vending machine, she looked at her own reflection in the mirror. Right behind her, his dark solemn face looming above her right shoulder, was Sadash. Alana swung around with a start. There was no one behind her. She looked back to the mirror, and terror caught in her throat. Sadash still was behind her reflection! His beautiful face was the strangest mixture of mockery and sadness. Again she swung her head and looked behind her. Nobody. "Is that all? Anything to drink?" the bartender said, coming back and extending her the cigarettes. But Alana didn't answer him. She was craning her neck to look over the bartender, who had blocked Sadash's image in the mirror. The bartender, bewildered, turned slightly around to look behind him, and while he did so Alana had the chance to look again at her own reflection in the mirror. But Sadash was gone. His image had vanished. 147

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"Is anything wrong?" the bartender asked, handing her the cigarettes. "No, nothing, nothing..." she said nervously. "Thanks." Reality was not reality. Or at least other people's reality was not her reality. Or maybe nothing such as an "Absolute Reality" existed, but there were many different levels of reality. The world was deceiving and illusory, full of appearances and hidden truths. Plato's cave came to her mind. Human beings were blindfolded, enslaved by chains and looking at nothing but shadows. The only thing real was Sadash. And what he was. The universe had suddenly turned upside down, but at least she knew she wasn't crazy. Not that this was a consolation. She felt a giddiness in her stomach which was part terror and part unexplained ecstasy. Walking back to her car, she looked suspiciously about her, half expecting to find Sadash in every corner. Old San Juan, a place she had always found cute and picturesque, now seemed ominous, portentous. The European-looking balconies, the warm air, charged with the seductive odor of the sea, suddenly appeared to have a malevolent edge. But there were no more visions of Sadash. And once inside her car she locked the doors and opened the packet with trembling fingers. She put a cigarette to her mouth and lit it. Then she took a few deep and desperate drags. She felt much calmer. The front part of the car filled with acrid puffs of smoke. After chain-smoking two cigarettes she pulled into the traffic, and ten minutes later found herself on the highway on 148

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her way home. But she was highly nervous, and she was afraid of looking into the rear view mirror. If she saw his face there ... she didn't even want to contemplate the results. Most probably she would have an accident. Don't you know by now there's an archangel watching over you? Alana shuddered, her fingers tightening on the wheel. "I'm not afraid of you," she stated with sudden rage. Once back home, she switched on all of the lights in her apartment, feeling slightly ashamed. Then she walked out onto the balcony and drank the rest of the wine that had been left in her glass. Two minutes to eight. Where are you? She walked the length of the balcony to her room. Bending over the stereo, she played her classical music cassette. Then she sank into an armchair and hoisted her feet up on the bed. She closed her eyes. Mozart flowed into her brain like a narcotic, so soothing it was. But she couldn't stop moving. Her tongue and throat were burning. Thirsty again. More wine. She went back to the balcony to fetch the unfinished bottle. Clasping the bottle by the neck, she tilted her head back and drank ... and drank. A trickle of red wine went down her chin and she wiped it off with the back of her hand. Bottle in hand, she went back into her room, sank into the armchair, hoisted her feet up on the bed, and closed her eyes. It was so perfectly delicious, this numbing feeling, the alcohol sweetly 149

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appeasing the rush of adrenaline, all problems gone, all the world gone. I understand you, Mami ... I do now. Wine is like a magician, makes reality disappear ... if only for a precious moment, it makes reality shift and dance before your eyes ... Where are you, Mami? I want you to hold me in your arms again ... I love you... It was a very subtle stirring of the curtains, an almost imperceptible surge of cool air, what made her open her eyes. Sadash, clad in a loose white shirt and black Levis, his dark hair hanging free on his shoulders, stood inside the room beside the sliding glass door. "Since you didn't come to me, I decided to come to you," he said. "Really, Alana, I can't say much for your manners, leaving me waiting like that." The bottle of wine fell from her grasp, spilling most of the wine on the floor. She straightened up and lowered her feet from the bed. But she remained seated, glued to the armchair, staring wildly at him from across the room. "Don't act so astonished," he said. "You were waiting for me. You know you were. With music, with wine, with your armchair turned just the right angle to face the balcony—a welcoming reception." His words swept through her like subterranean heat. "How did you get in here?" she breathed. He shrugged. "I flew over," he casually said. Alana swallowed dryness. It hurt to swallow. With his raven hair and amber eyes, he was almost painfully beautiful. 150

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And even as she sat there, looking at him and loathing him, she desired him. For a split second he narrowed his eyes and fixed on her the most keen, predatory gaze. As though he had smelled her lust. Flushing, her gaze dropped to the floor. But when she looked back at him the menacing expression had left his face, and he was staring at her with softly mocking eyes. "I enjoy flying in this weather," he said. "You enjoy flying in this weather," she repeated numbly. "Surely you remember your flying dreams ... don't you? The panther taking you into his arms and into the night sky?" Alana burst out laughing. "You're not here. You're a hallucination. You're nothing. You are not here. I refuse to believe that you are here. You do not exist." His action took her completely by surprise. In less than a second Sadash was in front of her, pulling her to him with a sudden husky groan and lifting her off the floor so that they were eye to eye. "No, my angel. If there's something I am—that's real," he told her in a voice that was as cruel as it was gentle. "Surely you can't believe otherwise ... after all our nights of passion." Clenching her teeth, Alana tried to push him away, her hands flat against his chest. But how to push away a stone tower? Yet she refused to give up, to be forced to surrender, and she wrestled, or tried to wrestle him, with unsteady hands and legs. "You're drunk," he said. 151

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"I hate you," she whispered harshly. "What gives you the right to ... to do this to me? You think you can come here— just like that—out of hell and ... and ... drive me insane! Who the hell are you? What are you? What do you want from me!" "You know what I am ... and I want you to say the word," he said. "I don't know what you are!" "I want you to say the word, Alana. I want to hear it from your lips—what I am." Alana spat into his face. Then she flinched and expected the worst. But he only cleaned his face with the sleeve of his shirt. "You daring little fool. Don't do that again,' he said. Alana stared wide-eyed at him, her breasts heaving wildly against him. His reaction had taken her by surprise. For a second she had been truly terrified, prepared for the worst. And yet, had she not spat at him because in fact she felt totally, perfectly sure he would never harm her? "That's right, I would never harm you. You've always known that. But that doesn't mean you can play with my patience. And now say the word. I want to hear it from your lips." For a second Alana battled in her mind, a torrent of thoughts muddling her vision, for a last grasp at reality. For after she said the word her concept of the world would totally change, and she would never, never be allowed to come back. "Why?" she breathed. "Why is it so important to hear it from my lips?" 152

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"Because we have a lot to talk about, and that's a good place to start." To say the word... No, no.... She couldn't say it.... How could she possibly admit the impossible? "No, you can't be that. You're ... you're something else. You can't be that," she said. And yet she knew what he was, she knew it was true, she had always known. "Say it, and we'll take it from there," he said. Her eyes lowered to his mouth. She knew what lay behind that sensual mouth, behind those beautiful lips, and instantly she felt herself yearning for it. Say the word. "Say it," he said, pulling her tighter against him. She shook her head. "No, you're not.... No, no, you cannot be. If you are—then I am—I don't know what I am." Sadash smiled, though his brows rose quite menacingly. "Are you teasing me with philosophy?" he drawled, caressing her face and neck with a sweep of his predatory eyes. "You don't understand. I can't say it." She was vaguely aware that she had stopped trying to push him away, that it was feeling increasingly pleasurable to be in his arms, and that she was suddenly overcome with a vengeful urge to provoke him and make him mad. And yet she had never known such raw fear ... the anticipation of what was to come, of what was to happen to her was perfectly shocking, yet the thrill of it all was too much. What if she started screaming and yelling for help? But she didn't want to yell for help. She wanted to be right where she 153

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was, imprisoned in his arms. She averted her eyes, trying to shield her thoughts from him. "It's no use," he told her. "What's no use?" "Trying to hide your thoughts. You're crystal clear. Now stop debating with yourself and say the damn word. God, you're stubborn." "Me, stubborn?" "Say it!" "I can't!" With his left arm clasped around her waist, he gallantly took her left hand as a waltz partner might. Smiling, he gave her a formal nod, as if he were bowing. Then he lowered his head, at the same time lifting her wrist to his lips. He kissed the inside of her wrist, pressing his cool mouth against the translucent paleness of this delicate part of her flesh, and for an odd moment his lips lingered here, his silky black locks shielding his face and her wrist. Alana watched him, too mesmerized to utter a sound. Abruptly she felt a sharp pain, quickly followed by a burning, stinging sensation on her wrist. "No...!" she gasped, trying to jerk her wrist free. But already he was drinking. He began to walk very slowly and randomly about the room, carrying her in this waltzing fashion as easily as a grown man holds an infant. She shuddered, the fever of her passion burning her cheeks and in her eyes. Steady, spasmodic ripples of illicit pleasure surged from her wrist and through her limbs. She arched against him, her dark red hair hanging well below her waist. She 154

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moaned and shut her eyes. With her free hand she pressed his head still harder against her wrist, her fingers twisting the black strands of his hair. It was a long moment after he had pulled himself away from her wrist that Alana finally opened her eyes to look at him. "Reality springs into focus, Alana," Sadash said. Sadash had uplifted her arm for her to have full view. A dark ruby trail of blood flowed from her wrist all the way down to the short sleeve of her white T-shirt. The collar and the front part of his white shirt were slightly stained and splattered with blood. The sleeve of his shirt was stained with blood, too. Alana screamed. She stared wildly at him, at that perfect mouth which was now shiny with blood, her blood ... like a jewel, darkly crimson, such a rich and lovely hue. "Say it," he whispered hoarsely, almost cruelly. And she saw his evil teeth, glistening with a mixture of saliva and blood, elongated and sharp, instruments of death ... and yet so overwhelmingly luring and beautiful. "My wrist ... I'm going to die..." She began sobbing, looking at her wrist. "Of course not. There's no wound." He lowered her arm. Looking again through her tears, Alana saw there were no open punctures, there was no open wound. Only a fresh thick trickle of blood remained.

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"I don't want to die," she sobbed. "I don't want to die." But she was not begging him, it was more as if she were saying these words quietly to herself. "For heaven's sake! What the hell do I have to do to you..." "Vampire!" she breathed against him, filled with resignation and rage, her face falling against the crook of his neck, her arms lovingly wrapping themselves around him.

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CHAPTER 7 For a long moment she sobbed quietly in his arms. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" he whispered, holding her face between his hands and wiping off her tears with his thumbs. Then he lowered his head and lightly, very tenderly kissed her mouth, his lips merely brushing hers. Closing her eyes, Alana caught a taste of her own blood from his lips. Metallic, salty blood. It instantly muddled her senses like wine. When she opened her eyes she saw his teeth had almost gone back to normal. Just the slightest hint of the fangs remained, the pointed edges being just a little too long, just a little too sharp. But even this added to his feline beauty. "You're the panther, aren't you?" she said, calmer now. "I'm everything you want me to be. An illusion, for your eyes." "The unknown person in my dreams, with the long nails..." "Well..." he smiled, somewhat guiltily. "I wanted to scare you just a little, just for the hell of it." "And in Salem, the raccoon..." Sadash nodded, running his fingers through her hair as he gazed at her. "When I went out into that forest..." she began. "It was real. It was not a dream." "But I was ... I was flying from one tree to another. I was..." 157

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"You were. Hand in hand with me. We've flown together many times in the past." "Many times in the past..." Alana took a deep breath, perfectly flabbergasted. "How many times?" "Many." "How long has this been going on?" "Since that night in Istanbul. Yes ... What you saw in the bazaar was not an illusion." "Oh God ... I look at you ... I look at you now and I can't believe what I'm seeing, what I'm hearing. What ... what about the sleepwalking?" "You were sleepwalking, and yet you weren't. You were under my spell." "Under your spell..." Alana repeated, staring into his eyes. Her head was a tornado, and she didn't know how to continue, what to ask. "I know. And I will answer all of your questions. I will tell you all you wish to know. Tonight. Before sunrise." "You can read my thoughts." "It's only telepathy." Alana took another breath. She took Sadash's hands into her own and studied them closely. Big strong hands, the fingers long and lean and darkly tanned, dusted with black hairs. Irresistibly beautiful hands. He smiled. "Do you like them?" Alana looked up at him. How to believe he was not real? How to believe he was not what he was? Vampire ... Vampire ... Vampire ... Vampire ... V-A-M-P-IR-E! 158

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Sadash laughed. "You should see the expression on your face." But Alana couldn't laugh. She turned over his hands and peered into his palms, tracing the lines with her thumbs. She remembered last night, and how he had held her hands and studied her palms. Had it been only last night? It seemed ages had passed since then. "How long will you live?" she tentatively asked. "That's only the mortal life line on my palm. It's short ... as yours is." She dropped his hands as if she had been burned, and walked away from him to the other side of the room. "I didn't mean to be so blunt," he said. "I didn't mean to frighten you." She raised her brows. "Frighten me? Frighten me? How could you possibly frighten me? You're only a vampire," she said. "You're ... you're..." "Say it." Dead. "I want to say it. I do—I do, I want to say it. But how can I say it, when you're here, looking at me, talking to me, holding me, kissing me. You look so ... so alive!" "I am alive ... in a matter of speaking." They stared at each other from across the room, piercing each other with their eyes. "Come here," he said, extending his arm, the white sleeve stained with her blood. For a moment she fixed her eyes on his stained sleeve. The sharp contrast of white and red had a shocking, obscene 159

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quality to it. Then she walked across the room and stood in from of him. Sadash unbuttoned his shirt. Then he took her hand and pressed her open palm against his heart. There was a strong pounding heart under that ribcage, throbbing against her open palm, as alive a heart as it could ever be. She knew this, of course. She had felt it thudding against her breast and against her ear a hundred times. "I told you last night. Living is a relative concept. I am alive, but I am not exactly human. I am something else," he said, releasing her hand. "What?" He lifted his brows. "A vampire," he simply said. "But your human body ... is it dead?" "This still is my human body. It's alive, though it is changed," he said. "But before it changed ... it died." "Yes." "So you died before you became a vampire." "Yes. You have the general information. You have read the books." "Then all the legends, the books, the novels, the stories..." "Most of them are lies. But so much literature cannot be based solely on fantasy, don't you think?" he said. He took her hand and pulled her to him. "I want to take you somewhere. This is not a good place to talk." "When did you die? When did you become a vampire?" "Not here." "Please ... tell me." 160

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"Not here. It's not safe here. Your friend Valeria will soon come. We have to go somewhere else." "Where?" "Somewhere else. Trust me. You know I would never harm you. I would never, never harm you," he said, his fingers raking her hair upwards from the nape of her neck. "What if I don't want to come with you?" "I would put you under my spell and take you with me anyway. But I don't want to do that. I hate doing that." "How do you do that—put me under your spell?" "I wish it done, and it's done." "Just like that?" "We're mostly psychic creatures ... in spite of our dark hunger." Then he added, "I want you to come willingly. You want to come with me, don't you? It's only natural for us to be together. It's only right," he said. "Natural? Why? Why such fatalism?" "Too many questions and not much time," he said. "We have to go now. Valeria is in her car on her way here." "Can you see her right now, in her car?" "Yes." "Can you see the future?" "Alana," he said patiently. "I can't stop asking questions. I can't help it." "I know. No, I cannot see the future. Now, let's clean your arm and change your shirt. We don't want to bring attention to ourselves. Do you have an oversized shirt I could wear?" For a moment Alana just stared at him, too confused to move. 161

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"On second thought, let's first clean your arm," he said, leading her off by the hand to the bathroom sink, where he carefully rinsed off all traces of blood from her arm. "I didn't plan for this to happen. Believe me, I always do a spotless job. I didn't mean to be so crude ... but somehow you seem to bring out my darkest impulses," he said, drying her arm lightly with a towel. Then he went to the closet and chose a blue shirt for her and an oversized T-shirt with a picture of Spiderman on the front for himself. He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it onto the floor, revealing a torso that was lean and hard muscled. He slipped on the Spiderman T-shirt. With the blood-stained shirt he quickly cleaned the drops of blood and spilled wine from the floor. Then he wadded it into a ball and tossed it inside the hamper by her closet. "We don't want Valeria to get worried, do we?" he said. Alana stood like a statue watching him, the clean blue shirt hanging limply from her hands. "Alana..." Sadash said. "Why don't you change? Or you want me to do it for you?" "I..." she began. "Don't tell me you want me to turn my back," he mocked. "No, no ... it's not that. If I go with you, what's going to happen tonight?" "Only what you wish to happen." "You mean you wouldn't ... without my consent, I mean ... you wouldn't..." 162

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He went over to her and traced the line of her jaw with his index finger. "I won't do anything you don't want me to do." "How can I trust you?" "I promise." "You promise? That's it? As simple as that?" "I promise." He pulled her shirt off over her head and bent over to kiss her neck, her shoulder. She moistened her dry lips and closed her eyes. Again that feral stirring inside of her, again that unquenchable thirst. She put her arms around him and began to caress his hair from the nape of his neck, her body automatically clinging itself to him. Rudely he pulled away from her, and when she looked at him she saw his canines had partially lengthened. "Aman Allah! Show some mercy, for God's sake!" he said, a glitter of lust in his eyes, and in a quick, abrupt manner he helped her into the shirt. "Just now your face seemed ... there was an opalescent shimmer to it. I noticed it before in the nightclub..." she said when he finished buttoning her shirt. "It means I am beginning to get hungry, very hungry." **** "Now, write the note. We don't want her to panic. And no tricky business," Sadash said. Alana held the paper and pen in her hands. Then, bending over the dressing table, she began to write. Lord, her fingers were shaking! 163

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Before she was finished she felt his hand slipping inside her shirt and around her waist. "I can't keep my hands off you," he whispered behind her back. **** "But I thought..." Alana began, bewildered, as he led her off by the hand towards the door and out down the hall to the elevators. "You thought we were going to fly off the balcony?" "I don't know what I thought. You said—I can't believe I'm actually saying this—you said you flew over here." "I did. From down the street to your balcony I flew over. But to the condo I came by car. The truth is, if we fly to where I want to take you, it'll only take a few minutes. By car it'll take at least an hour. I want to prolong the moment." "When you fly ... what if someone is looking out the balcony? Wouldn't he see you?" "With you in my arms he might. But I alone, no. Only for a second he'll see a flash of something indefinite. It's not really flying. It's moving through the air at an incredible speed. Again, mental power. Telekinesis. Same thing as moving objects with your mind. The only difference is that I'm moving myself." Once outside the building, Alana followed him a few yards down the sidewalk to his car, a metallic dark cherry-colored Porsche. Sadash opened the door and gallantly gestured for her to climb inside. 164

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Alana leaned against the seat, the expensive scent of polished black leather somehow soothing her senses. He drove smoothly into the traffic, though he appeared to be a bit reckless on the turns and curves. In a few minutes they were on the highway. "Where are we going?" Alana asked, looking at his profile in the semidarkness of the car. Silence. "Sadash?" she said, her pulse throbbing. He glanced at her. "Don't you like surprises?" "I hate surprises." "Yes, I know. You hate many things. I also know what you love." "Sadash, please, don't play word games with me. I want to know where we're going," she said. "I, on the other hand, love to surprise you." "You're enjoying this, aren't you? Every second of it." He didn't answer, but a broad smile spread across his face. "Sadash..." she began. "Yes?" "When I ask you a question, can I trust that you're answering me with the truth?" "Most of the time. I may refuse to answer your question, but I won't lie to you. As I said, most of the time." There was a pause. "Tell me the truth. Last night, when I almost got mugged..." she began. "Yes?" "Did you kill him?" 165

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"Yes," he said. Alana stared through the windshield, stunned. She had felt it, had known it. But to hear it from his lips, just like this, in such a natural manner, was something entirely different. A killer... "Yes, Alana. That is what I am. There is magnificence in what we are, as there is also brutality." "We?" "I'm not the only vampire on this planet. Surely you can imagine that." Silence. "Why did you kill him?" she said. "Because he tried to harm me?" "I'm a very protective kind of guy. He meant to kill you. Just as he had killed another woman months before. I scanned his soul and that's what I saw—murder and drugs. I'm not sorry I killed him. As a matter of fact, I can honestly say I enjoyed it." "You enjoyed it? Killing a sixteen-year old? I know he was a killer, but..." "Remember the vigilantism paper you wrote in Boston? Junior year. Professor Allen's class. I loved it. I read it many times." Goose bumps appeared on her skin. "My God. You know everything about me, don't you?" "Surely you can see the big picture in it," he said. "In killing? I'm not sure I understand what you mean." "Sure you do. With your radical ideas of law and justice. Haven't you always been a fervent believer in taking the law 166

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into your own hands? Well ... he was a killer, and yet he was freely roaming the streets. Wouldn't you enjoy cleaning up the streets and getting rid of murderers like him?" "Is that what you do?" Alana said sarcastically. "At least I don't feel guilty. When you look at the statistics, for each killer that dies a number of innocent people are saved." "So you decide who lives or dies." "I don't decide. I have to kill to survive. I don't have a choice. Blood from a blood bank would slowly make me sick. It has to be fresh. It has to be warm. I must have fresh blood. So I might as well clean up society a bit. I do good. Believe it or not. Not that I'm an angel, I'm not saying that. I've killed many innocent people before. I had a very reckless vampiric youth." "You could be an angel, why not? The Devil was an angel." "I thought you didn't believe in that stuff." "I don't have any idea what or what not to believe. After this, everything is possible. "A very sensible move," he said. After a thoughtful moment, he said, "How come you're still a virgin?" She let out an anxious laugh. "What a question! Why do you ask me this, in the midst of this conversation? Not that it's any of your business." He shrugged. "I don't know. The thought just came to my head. I've wondered about it many times." "Well, it's none of your business." The irony of it! How did she tell him that now that she had found her male ideal, that her male ideal was dead ... or undead. Suddenly a thought 167

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sprang into her head, and she frantically tried to shove it away. This was crazy. She should be fearing for her life. Yet here she was with a vampire, having lewd thoughts. She heard him laughing, a deep coarse laugh. "Don't feel so miserable," he told her. "Can you stop doing that—reading my thoughts? I feel totally assaulted." "Okay, I'll try. But it's not easy. You're very passionate. You feel so strongly about things," he said. There was an awkward pause. "Well? You might as well answer my question," she said, annoyed. "No. Vampires cannot make love." "Oh." "Disappointed?" How strange. But she was. She truly, truly was. He looked at her, and his yellow eyes glowed in the semidarkness. His skin, too, suddenly seemed to glow very subtly here and there. "Carnal passion is nothing, Alana. Zero. Absolutely nothing ... compared to the bloodlust." He said this in a voice so seductive, so intense, so promising it took her breath away. This remark seemed to close the conversation for the next few minutes. Just for a moment Alana thought about Valeria. Had she already read the note? Had she believed it? She felt so vulnerable sitting here, the air conditioning hitting her naked legs, her flesh so pale against the black leather. She furtively glanced at his profile from the corner of her eyes. Somehow 168

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the innocent picture of Sadash in the Spiderman T-shirt made him all the more terrifying. It reminded her of her childhood nights, when she had often imagined her stuffed Mickey Mouse growing out fangs and creeping under her blanket. And her mother ... her beautiful yet pathetic mother, her breath fetid from gin... Shhhh.... Such creatures don't exist, my sweet darling, come into my arms, close your eyes, go back to sleep ... How wrong! Oh, how very, very wrong! "Where are we going? We're on the road to Fajardo," Alana said. "Shhhh ... I told you it's a surprise." A minute later she saw the sign to El Yunque, the national rain forest, and Sadash took a reckless curve in that direction. Her heart raced. "Are we going to El Yunque?" she said. But did it matter, after all, where he took her? Would it change anything? She was his special prisoner, his willing prisoner. She saw them in the distance, the dark high mountains, ominous and majestic. How many times, over many glasses of wine, had she talked about this place with Valeria and Humberto. About flying saucers, aliens, magic mushrooms... "There's an old Spanish tower there..." he said. Alana frowned. His words brought a crystalline image into her brain. The last time she had been there was years ago. But she remembered the old stone tower with a peaked slate roof, six or seven stories high, with little arched windows and a narrow curving stairway in its center. To be in a dark forest with him. 169

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To be in a perfectly dark and desolated place with him. It did bring out the most basic instinct—of survival. And she knew everything was leading up to a high unavoidable summit, like their ascent into the mountains. And yet she wanted to be right where she was. "Sadash..." "Yes?" "What's going to happen tonight?" "Afraid?" "No, no at all," she said sarcastically. "Why should I? Why in the world should I be?" "That's what I love about you, your sarcastic humor in difficult situations. Even if it's only a defense mechanism." "Can you answer my question?" "Okay. It will be everything that you wish, and nothing that you don't." "You make everything sound so ... simple." "But it is simple." Alana sighed, watching the dark wild foliage around them as he made another turn into an ascending curving road. "How old are you?" she said. "You want my mortal age or my vampiric age?" "Both." "I was twenty-eight when I was turned into what I am, and I have been what I am for almost three hundred and twenty years." "Three hundred and twenty years!" "Three hundred and fourteen years, to be exact. I think. I don't keep track of time anymore." 170

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But Alana was shocked. "Three hundred and fourteen! I never thought—I don't know why, but I never expected you to be so old." For a moment she shut her eyes. To be immortal... The idea of being immortal... "Yes ... immortal," he said. "You're trying to seduce me," she said accusingly. "Who? Me?" He gave her an innocent look. "Whatever gave you that idea?" "All right, all right. Where were you born? In Turkey?" "Uh-huh." "So you were born during the height of the Ottoman Empire," she said. "You know your history." "I minored in history, remember? What were you during your mortal lifetime?" "A Sehzade." "What's that?" "The son of the Padisha. I was a prince and a soldier." "Oh, come on!" she blurted out, incredulous. "You're lying." But he looked puzzled. "You believe I'm a vampire, yet you can't believe I was a prince?" "Are you serious?" "Perfectly serious. I didn't ask for the honor, believe me," he said. "And a soldier?" "A damn good one." 171

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"This is crazy," she muttered under her breath. "Are you telling me the truth?" He raised his right hand. "I swear." Alana sighed. "How were you turned into a vampire? Who made you?" "We're almost there," he said. "Aren't you going to answer my question?" His right hand stroked her hand. "Later." "But..." "No buts." "I thought you liked it when I ask you questions," she said. "Like it? I love to talk to you. I have waited so long to talk to you like this. To reveal myself to you." "How long?" "Since you were a child. Don't worry. You will remember everything, all the things that have happened between us that are buried in your subconscious." "All the things...?" "Yes. All the things that I've made sure you don't remember." "But why? Why didn't you want me to remember?" "Isn't it obvious? To protect you. Think about it. What would you have done, a child-woman, if you knew a vampire had crept into your room and drank your blood?" Alana was aghast. "You drank my blood then?" "What would you have done if you believed without doubt that the man you had seen in the bazaar had deadly teeth? That all those vivid nightmares, all those flying trips in the 172

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night, had been nothing but the truth? I wanted to protect your sanity." "You wanted to protect my sanity," she repeated, reflecting on his words. "How sensitive, how totally thoughtful of you. But I forgot, you're a very protective kind of guy. Should I thank you?" she whispered coldly. "Believe it or not, I did it thinking of your well-being." "You did good, didn't you? Goodness again." Sadash didn't answer, but he threw her an odd look. "All right. All right, fine," she continued. "I can believe that. I can believe you did it to protect me. But what about the other part? What about drinking the blood of a ten year old, huh? What do you have to say about that?" "Say? I don't have to say anything. I am what I am." "Just like that? A child?" "I didn't hurt you. I merely tasted you. I have wanted you for twelve years. And yet I've waited." "But why me? What's so special about me? Why couldn't you just let me be? Didn't you ever hesitate, even for a moment? Didn't you stop to think?" "As a matter of fact I did," he said, then sadly added, "I can't expect you to understand what drives us." "But why me? Why me and not someone else?" "You were beautiful. You were ... if you must know the truth, I've always had a weakness for red hair and black eyes." "I hate you," she said after a moment. "You wished you did." Then he added, "I'm sorry. In a way I hated that this moment must come, when I would have to 173

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make you remember. When I would have to make you understand our past." "All those times ... when I thought there was someone watching me or following me, when I thought I was paranoid.... It was you. All along, it was you." At this he grimaced lightly, but he didn't say anything. "How many times have you drank my blood?" she said. "That's why I feel so close to you, isn't it? We've always been connected, you and I. It's like a blood pact, except I wasn't a voluntary participant. That's why I couldn't take my eyes off raw liver, why I couldn't take my eyes off those TV shows where they show open heart surgeries. I always had to see the blood, it drew me like a magnet." "Stop making yourself miserable," he said kindly, suddenly stopping the car. "I want to know! And just when will I remember everything?" For a moment she couldn't see anything. The surrounding darkness was engulfing. She was keenly aware of her uneven breathing, of her trembling hands. Watching him get out of the car, she suddenly felt an urge to jump into the driver seat and speed away from him. The idea! As if she had any chance of escaping. But Sadash had already opened her door. "Come," he told her softly, offering her his hand. "And try to calm down. You'll know all you wish to know ... before the sun rises."

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A quick impulse made her clutch his hand. How to describe what she felt? Except for love and hate, and mind-shattering lust and fear. The air was cool and heavy with the perfume of moist soil and green leaves, and the shrill melody of insects and coquies was overwhelming. A waterfall hummed in the distance, its sound echoing across the mountain. In the distance she saw the peaked slate top of the Spanish tower, a huge mystical silhouette projecting out of the dense black foliage. Alana looked up at the sky. Black velvet, a clear shimmering carpet laced with diamonds. There it was in all it splendor—Sirius, she could also see the Orion constellation perfectly well. "Beautiful?" he asked her, giving her hand a little squeeze. Alana nodded. "Why did you choose this place?" "Sometimes you don't ponder enough, Alana. You don't look deeply into human beings." "You're not exactly a human being, you said so yourself." "Physically that's true. But in spirit, I am human. Very human. More than you think." "All right, so you're a hopeless romantic." She studied his face. "Your skin is changing again ... shining again." "I know. Now, I want you to wrap your arms around my waist." "Are we going to fly?" "You're dying to do it, aren't you? This time I'll go slowly. Hug me around the waist. Yes, like that. Very good. Are you ready?" he said, embracing her, guarding her with his arms. "Yes," she whispered, holding her breath. 175

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Slowly, ever so gently they ascended into the air, the dark cherry Porsche and the lush green trees becoming farther and farther under their feet. It was like no other thing she had experience before, and yet it was a familiar sensation. She knew exactly what it would feel like. She laughed anxiously like a child, clinging tighter against him and looking around her with widened eyes. Less than a minute later they stood on a round terrace edged by a five-foot peaked wall, which served as the roof of the tower. Alana pulled away from him and looked down over the wall, the moisture-laden breeze tousling her hair. The view was amazing. Under and all around them the dark forest was covered by a silvery blanket of fog. And beyond that, to the northeast, the hazy shoreline, distantly shimmering with thousands of lights from San Juan and its neighboring towns. "Are you cold?" he asked her. It was very cool. She should have felt very cold with only her shirt and shorts. But she wasn't. In fact there was a tingling warmth coursing inside of her. "No..." she said, slowly walking back towards the center of the roof, where he stood staring at her. "I guess I should be freezing, but I'm not." But she realized he was not listening to her. His eyes were slowly moving down her body, down her naked legs, then upwards to her breasts, to her neck, to her face. They settled upon her lips, which were half open and dry.

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Terrified of what she saw in his eyes, she moved away from him and went to stand again by the wall, adrenaline rushing madly through her veins. She turned to look at him. "I have many more questions," she said, as if questions were her only excuse, her only protection. Sadash folded his arms across his chest and glanced down at the floor, muttering something under his breath. "What did you say?" she said. He half smiled. "Nothing. Ask me anything you want." "The sun, the fire, the stake through the heart ... Is it all true? Can they destroy you?" "That's the biggest misconception of all. The best secret kept by vampires. No element, no object can destroy us. Not the sun, not fire, not a stake through the heart. Not even crosses, not holy water, not garlic. Nothing can destroy us. We wouldn't be immortal if all those stories were true." "But I thought the sun..." "It can harm us, it can burn us, as fire can burn us. It can gives us unbearable agony and pain. It can turn us to ashes. Unthinkable suffering. But ashes is matter, and as long as matter lives, we live. It may take time for the burned matter to reconstruct itself. It may take years. But it ultimately does. Always. Even if the ashes are scattered in different continents. They eventually unite again. Our cells heal at a preternatural rate. The force that drives us—which I don't know what it is or where it comes from—is as powerful as that. Immortality is immortality. No more, no less." 177

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Alana digested his words, astonished. The horror and the miracle.... To live forever and ever and ever and ever... "I said no element, no object can destroy us. But there are two beings who can. One is your Maker. The other one is Yourself. So you see, Alana, it's no horror. We, too, if we wish, can finally hope for salvation, or eternal Hell, if such fictional states indeed exist, for I truly believe they don't." "Can you explain, please?" "It's very simple. Nothing can destroy me. Nothing whatsoever. Except for the psychic power of my own Maker, who will always be stronger than myself. And except for my own calculated wish to destroy myself, to annihilate every particle, every sub-particle in my soul and in my body. Soul is made of particles, too. Only of a different kind." "Suicide." "Exactly. Fortunately, you don't have to live with the fear of being destroyed by your Maker. Your Maker will always make you in love and will never destroy you unless you ask to be destroyed. Like the most powerful of mother's instincts, a Maker will never turn against a Fledgling. There are times when a vampire doesn't have the will or the courage to destroy himself, so he asks his Maker. But I've only heard about stories like this once or twice in my lifetime. Beings who have reached the millennium and become insane. Suicide, too, is very unusual. The smell of blood makes our survival instinct undefeatable." "So if you wish to destroy yourself but your Maker is already destroyed, you still have yourself as a weapon of self destruction." 178

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"Exactly. I, for example, could never think about destruction. I love myself too much. I love humans too much. I love my existence too much. God, I love the blood draught too much! I'm addicted to it. But maybe I'm still too young. Once in a while, when I get tired of my own immortality, I go into a deep sleep for a few years. Once I slept for fifteen years without opening an eye. After all, what are fifteen years when you have eternity? But who knows how I'll feel a few hundred years from now. We change with time, just like humans. But while a human may need only a decade or two to change, we need a few centuries. I'm still practically my mortal self. I've hardly changed." "What about sleeping? Where can you sleep?" "Anywhere as long as it is away from the reach of sunlight. In a dark hotel room, in a cellar, under the ground." He gestured toward the forest. "I could dig a hole and sleep under the ground. But I hate it. I hate insects, especially worms ... I hate worms! I've always preferred coffins. There's something very intimate and reassuring about them. A coffin in a cellar makes me feel safe." "This sounds like a stupid question, but where do you live?" "For the moment in a house in Garden Hills. I'll take you there soon." "We're living in the same district! No coincidence, I guess." He shrugged. "Distance is a meaningless concept for me." "How..." she began. She was having trouble concentrating, watching his face and forearms subtly glow like iridescent fire in the semidarkness. "Why does your skin glow like that?" 179

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"We don't know why this happens. But it happens when we're hungry. We get cold, too. After a feed we become warm again, the color of our skin goes back to normal. But you were very perceptive. A human has to be very perceptive to notice it." "Yes ... it's very subtle," she agreed. "I thought vampires were very pale." "Fiction. Why should vampires be pale? Unless they were pale as humans in the first place. We don't sweat, we don't smell, we don't go to the bathroom. But we do feel the cold and the heat and we can cry." "Tonight, when I went into that bar to get the cigarettes, I saw your reflection in the mirror, but when I looked behind me..." "Call it 'mass illusion,' or 'collective spell.' It's another power we possess, though I've never seen a young vampire doing this. Think of it as a talent that comes with the years. Think of it as an electromagnetic shield we're able to build around us, making us invisible to the general mortal eye. It drains your energy, though. It takes much concentration. It leaves you weaker and hungrier. Unfortunately, and I don't know the reason why, this trick doesn't work with mirrors." There was a pause. "Well? Anything else?" Sadash said. "Yes, of course. How—how long have you been in Puerto Rico?" "One year." "You said you had some business here. Was this true?" 180

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He gave her a guilty little smile. "Partial lie. I do have business here, but I'm not a software engineer like I told you. I have ... a chain of nightclubs." "Nightclubs?" Of course. How blind, how stupid she had been. "Nightclubs?" "Don't be so hard on yourself. Sometimes the obvious is so obvious it's inconceivable," he said. "You lied to me!" "I couldn't tell you on our first date. It would have spoilt it. It would have been too bizarre." "Bizarre? Bizarre?" She cursed him under her breath. "I suppose you also own a place in Los Angeles called Fangs?" "Your dear friend, Humberto, was a regular customer there," he drawled. Alana paled. "Don't worry, I would never harm someone close to you. I would never hurt someone you love." She nodded lightly. "How did I end up as the manager? Did you have that arranged, too? I don't know which act of my life is genuine and which is an illusion anymore. Everything is distorted. How did you force me into applying for the job? You used your damn telepathic spell, is that it?" She spat out the word "spell." "Ah, but you see, there lies the fatalism of it. I didn't influence