Embraced By The Shadows

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EMBRACED BY THE SHADOWS By

Mayra Calvani Contents PROLOGUE CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2 CHAPTER 3 CHAPTER 4 CHAPTER 5 CHAPTER 6 CHAPTER 7 CHAPTER 8 CHAPTER 9 CHAPTER 10 CHAPTER 11 CHAPTER 12 CHAPTER 13 CHAPTER 14 CHAPTER 15 CHAPTER 16 Epilogue

Twilight Times Books www.twilighttimes.com

Embraced by the Shadows By Mayra Calvani

Twilight Times Books Kingsport, Tennessee

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 Published in the United States of America.

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. 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 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 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. 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...

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 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 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 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 business man, 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." "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 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... 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. 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 dark-haired 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, 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. "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 first-rate 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 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?"

"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. 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 bad-looking 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." "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 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 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 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. "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?"

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. 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 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 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 candle-lit 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. 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." "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. 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. 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?" 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. The same dim red shafts of light came down from stalactites, baleful, portentous. The waiters came from another world, from an under world. 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. 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. 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 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. 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. 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, 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. "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. "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 fast-paced 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

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.

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. 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. 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?" 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." "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." "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. "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. **** 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. 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. 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. 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 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. 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.

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?" "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. "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. 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-no-remember 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 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 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. "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 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. "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."

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." "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 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 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 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. 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. "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." 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 sarcophagus-bar 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. "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 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. 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. 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. "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 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. "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. He wondered how he would seem to her, a twenty-eight-year 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.

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. 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. 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—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." "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. "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?" 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 make-up." "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. "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. "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. 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?" "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. 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 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. 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." 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. "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 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." "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. "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."

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 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 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 palm-readers, 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?" "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 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. 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." 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 palm-reading experience." One long index finger traced her life line. Again that tingly coolness, as though he had just come out of an air-conditioned place. But, ah, so comforting, so pleasurable... A convulsed shiver ran through her. She stiffened. "Well, will I live long?” she said. "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 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?" 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. 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 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. 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 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 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. 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 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 multi-dimensional 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. 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. "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?" "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. "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." "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 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 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? "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.

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 T-shirt 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. "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." "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.

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. "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 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. "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." "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?" "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?" "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. "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." "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. 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 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. 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 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 four-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. 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 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. "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 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 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. 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. "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?" "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 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 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. "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.

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..." "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 ... V ampire... V-A-M-P-I-R-E! 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 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." "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. "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..." 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! 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. 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?" "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 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 un dead.

Suddenly a thought 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 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. 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." 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." "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 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 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." 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.

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. 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." 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." "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?" "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?" 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 you in any way to apply for that job. That position could have been filled by anybody, as far as I was concerned. It wouldn't have made any difference at all. But yet you noticed the opening in the newspaper, you —on your own accord—applied for the job. I laughed out loud when I found out you were obsessed by the idea of playing a vampire. Of course, I won't deny the fact that I told my agent to give you the job right away. The fact that you were obsessed by that job makes everything all the more final.” He clasped her by the shoulders and pulled her to him. “I know you don't understand, but we are meant to be together. I knew it the first night I saw you, when you wrapped your little arms around me and let me taste your blood. You did it freely, on your own accord, and your eyes were filled with urgency and love, and this had never, never happened to me with any other mortal before. And at that moment I knew ... Yes, yes, I perfectly knew." "You're ... You're crazy!" But he only shook her shoulders harder, almost cruelly. “Do you have any more questions? Then ask me. I want you to know everything you wish to know ... before I kill you."

CHAPTER 8

The look he flashed her sent a chill down her spine. "Before you kill me? So this is your aim all along—killing me! I knew I couldn't trust you. I knew you were lying to me. You promised you wouldn't hurt me. You promised. Do you think I want to die?" "You know you wouldn't be dying ... not really dying.” His hands were sliding up and down her arms. "And ... and not to see the ... the light of the sun again?” she stammered, confused, his touch muddling her like the poison of some exotic flower. "You'll drink sunlight..." "Don't touch me! I can't think when you touch me!” She pulled away from him and stood by the wall, turning her back to him. "Only a transformation...” he whispered. "Only a transformation...” she repeated, putting her hands flat against her temples, shutting her eyes. "Immortality ... and powers far beyond your beliefs ... and the infinite pleasure of the blood draught..." "No ... no..." "I'll always be here for you ... Your father, your lover, your teacher..." But killing ... killing? "You don't have to kill the innocents. Only feed on evil doers. The murderers, the drug dealers, the child molesters. And believe me, even them you'll kill in love." To kill in love? "Yes ... in love,” he said. There were so many more things she needed to ask, she needed to know, so many things she should ask... "What's your last name? I don't even know your last name,” she said, desperately grabbing at any thought that came to her head. "I don't have a last name. I was born without a last name. Last names didn't exist in Ottoman times. Didn't you know that?" "No."

"Well, it's true. I later adopted one, of course. One can't go around dealing business without a last name. Sadash Ölmez, at your service. In Turkish meaning ‘ immortal’ or ‘that one who does not die.’” Hilarious. She suddenly felt like laughing. But here it was again ... that thirst, that throbbing, that nagging at her throat. Swallowing was agony. And it wasn't only her throat. The parchedness irradiated from her throat and spread like lava into her heart, into her limbs, into her very soul. "You're suffering...” he said behind her. “You asked me before how many times I have drank from you. You should have asked me how many times you have drank from me. The cursed spark runs in your veins. It's not alcohol that you've always craved. It's not wine ... it's blood." She was almost sobbing now. “No! You promised..." "And I'm only doing what I promised. To do your wish. And you want this, my beloved. I can read your heart as easily as I can read your thoughts,” he said. The fervent tenderness in his voice was like a lullaby. "I don't want to die ... I'm afraid...." "You weren't afraid last night, when you pushed that evil soul against the wall,” he said. "Evil? You are evil." "Goodness and Evil.... They're relative, they're not absolute concepts." "Goodness is absolute! Evil is absolute!" He laughed softly to himself. “We'll have many philosophical debates, but not now." Looking up to the sky, her face contorted into a grimace of pain. "I'll hate you forever...” she whispered harshly. But in fact she meant just the opposite, that she had always and would always love him. But already he had come behind her and slipped his arms around her waist, his head tilted down to feel her cheek. “If hate is what I feel in your spirit, then I'll take hate anytime. Shhh.... You're in pain. Why don't you let me soothe you ... cure you ... love you...?” he whispered. Her whole body stiffened involuntarily as she arched her neck to him. She reached for his mouth. He kissed her, the coolness of his lips scorching her, and with her eyes closed she felt his partially elongated teeth, their pointed little edges softly cutting her lower lip. She moaned, the metallic taste of her own blood sending an electric shiver down her back. But it was his blood she craved like a drug. But when she tried to bite his lips he suddenly and unceremoniously tilted her head roughly to the right and sank his full teeth into her neck, into the swelling artery. She gasped, feeling his body shuddering against her as if he had been hit by an intense spasm of pain. She struggled with her arms and with her legs, but only for a

moment. Her eyes closed as he clasped one arm around her waist and the other across her breasts, lifting her off the floor so he could have a better access to her neck. Sublime ... the ripples coursing through her veins. Her soul floating, sinking, drifting as he drank and drank in a perfectly greedy, ravenous way, as if he couldn't restrain anymore and was finally free to devour something he had hungered, needed for ages. She was a ragged doll in his embrace, her arms and legs hanging limply above the floor. Only now and then a deep moan escaped her throat. And in the mist of this delirium she faintly heard the shrilling melody of the insects and the coquies, she vaguely realized she was moving ... Sadash was slowly moving round the roof with her in arms, his fangs never for a second leaving her pulsing artery, never for a second halting the blood draught, mouthful after mouthful after mouthful after mouthful... It was a long moment later he pulled away from her. She would have collapsed onto the floor had he released her. But he helped her into a sitting position against the wall. Then he stood up and looked down at her. "You're dying,” he said. His voice rang weakly in her ears. But she was keenly aware of her own slow breathing, of the irregular rise and fall of her breasts. Her head somewhat lowered, she lifted her eyes to stare at him from under the fringe of her dark lashes. Her hair flowed wild about her. He hissed, fully exposing his fangs, his eyes luminous like crystals. His mouth was covered with blood, dark ruby trails streaming down its corners. He ran one lazy tongue around his mouth to lap at the blood there, his gesture languorously feline, a big cat grooming himself after the luscious satiation of a kill. "Do you enjoy dying, my sweet little Alana?” he drawled. She narrowed her eyes to see him clearer. "TUM ... TUM ... TUM ... Do you feel your heart slowing?” he said softly, mockingly. “Do you want to die?" Something resembling a desirous grunt came out of her mouth. He laughed. Then he slipped the T-shirt over his head and lay down on the cold stone floor beside her, his hair spread around his head like a pool of black ink. "No more jokes. Come, my beautiful one,” he said, sober now, reaching for her arm and pulling her down to him so that she still sat on the floor but her torso was partially thrown across his chest. And right before her eyes he brought an index finger to his chest and perforated the flesh and carved a diagonal gash across his pulsing heart. Blood sputtered and flowed, and Sadash clasped the back of her head and drew her to the wound, like a person pressing a kitten's mouth into a bowl of milk to compel it to drink.

The drinking of the blood ... liquid fire, liquid life ... How to describe it, except to say that Alana the human disintegrated and was transformed into the embodiment of ecstasy itself. An ecstasy that went on and on as long as she kept her clasp on the wound, as long as she swallowed this liquid that was her life as well as her death, her heaven as well as her hell. She moved above him to straddle his waist with her legs, her mouth never leaving his wound, her arms fiercely wrapped around his chest. And lifting her eyes as she drank she saw that Sadash was grimacing, his face contorted into an expression that could have been rapture as well as agony. He turned his head slightly to the side to look at her and for a second their eyes met. His breathing was heavy, thunderous. Rise and fall, rise and fall.... She was rising and falling with the rising and falling of his lungs. Drinking with the rise and fall... Sadash grunted, pushing her roughly to the side, but she still tried to hold on to him, her eyes glazed with the dark hunger. " Aman Allah.... What are you trying to do, kill me?” he breathed, straightening up into a sitting position. " Please...” But she was too weak to rise up to him. She rolled over on the floor and stared face up at the sky. So dark and immense it seemed now, the stars glinting, the whole sky so close above her eyes, summoning her, beckoning her... She felt him beside her, she felt his fingers lovingly caressing her cheek. "I'll be here, my lover, my daughter.... when you wake up,” he whispered. And then she died. **** Sitting Indian-style beside her, he gazed expectantly at her, waiting for the sudden fluttering of the eyelids, the subtle tremor of the chest. He had never made any other child of darkness out of such love. And she was so incredibly beautiful ... Now more than ever. Finally killing her, to have that privilege ... drinking that priceless spark of life out of her ... beyond his wildest dreams ... And her blood ... the magnificent taste of innocence itself together with her great love for her ... Shattering, simply shattering... A wave of melancholy swept over him, for never again would he see his mortal Alana, never again would he feel her human vulnerability and softness. And as much as he desired her as his eternal companion, he would always remember with painful longing the purity and sweetness of her pale soft arms wrapped around his waist. For a moment he closed his eyes. When he opened them again he noticed her eyes were moving under her closed lids. "Alana...” he said. Her eyes snapped open, brilliant black, flaming with a new inward fire that had never dwelled in her pupils before.

She smiled weakly at him. “I remember everything now.... Our past.... All is clear,” she whispered. "I know." "I'm hungry." He rose and extended a hand towards her. “Yes, my beautiful one. You're hungry ... and the city awaits."

CHAPTER 9

The power of her new vision stunned her. It was as if all along she had been looking at the world through a veil of mist, and all of a sudden the veil had been removed and everything sprang into crystalline focus. They drove back to the city and walked the streets around the docks. Alana could sort out a hundred separate scents upon the air and hear conversations that were taking place in bars far away from her and see flashes of a person's past as she glimpsed his or her face in the street. It was too much to take, too confusing and overwhelming, but Sadash told her she would soon learn to handle it. Her mind would gradually learn to take in what it wanted and discard what it didn't. Right now all these images, all these flashes of information were gushing into her brain without restraint, without any meaning whatsoever. And the hunger... Nothing like she could have ever imagined. Thirst and hunger as if she had been walking in the desert for a month, sensual hunger as if she had been lusting after someone for ages ... Blinding thirst and food hunger and sensual hunger, all in one. Only more, much more ... The bloodlust. The musky, metallic reek of blood was everywhere. In a dark and desolated street Sadash chose Alana's first meal, a sinister-looking individual with drug-dealing and murder in his past. As the man was hastening down the street, Sadash grabbed him by the collar and flung him against the wall, commanding him to surrender with the intense glimmer of his yellow eyes. The man's eyes became glazed, his body limp as Sadash turned his head to the side to expose the pulsing artery. "Take him,” he told Alana, who had watched the whole thing with horror in her eyes. Nervously moistening her lips, she fixed her eyes on the man's neck, on that little swelling spot. "I don't ... Do I have to kill him?” she mumbled, the tips of her fangs scraping the softness of her lower lip. "He deserves it, but you can take him half, if you want. That is, if you have the will to stop yourself before his heart does."

Sadash had been right. This was an act of love. Hardly aware of her sudden feral arousal, of the sudden lengthening of her canines, she wrapped her arms around the man's neck and, breathing in all of his human stinking sweat, took him by the artery, her teeth crushing through flesh and muscle. A gush of blood spurted into her mouth and for a second it seemed too much blood to take, too forceful the flow to keep up with it, to be even able to breathe. But oh, the taste of it!.... To kill in love. Yes, yes, yes, to kill in love! Nothing compare to this, nothing could ever compare to this love.. consume him, yes, yes, drink until the heart stops, till it's drained... A haunting melody, a holy song, a mouthful for each continuous beat of his heart, like steady Indian drums in the center of a dark forest, thudding heavily in her ears . But don't go, please no, don't go, I love you.... I love you so much! The man was dead. Horrified by what she had done, she tossed the dead body onto the ground and stepped back from it as if she had been burned. When she looked at Sadash, he was laughing. "You're ... you're a monster!” she breathed, her mind blazing like the sun from the feast. "Maybe. But I'm a realistic monster. I don't pretend to be what I'm not, and if you want to survive as long as I have, you'll do the same,” he said, taking her by the arm and hastening down the dark street. "I killed him.... Dear God, I killed him...” she whispered to herself, unconsciously licking any trace of blood from her lips. “I didn't have to kill him, but I killed him, I killed him!" A few minutes later, in the Porsche, Sadash waited to start the car until Alana became calmer. She was still shaking and muttering things to herself. The only thing in her mind was that dead body, its smell and its inertia and its heaviness, the brutal way in which she had feasted on it and then tossed it onto the ground like a disposable piece of garbage. She began sobbing. Sadash drew her to him and held her in his arms. “Don't be so hard on yourself. It's like this in the beginning. It took me a long time to control my hunger, to control my desire. It happens to all of us. I know. It feels like something you could never be able to learn. But you will learn it. Believe me. And you have me. I'll always be here for you. Now try to put that behind you and concentrate on your new powers. He's not worth one drop of your tears. You've done society a favor." "Don't talk about cleaning up society, please. Or about goodness." ...tossed onto the ground like a disposable piece of garbage... Alana pulled away from him. As much as she loved him, she was suddenly oddly repulsed by him. She calmed herself a bit, wiping off the tears with her fingers, but when she looked at her hands she screamed.

Her fingers were covered with blood. "Shhhh.... Easy, easy.... It's only your tears. I should have told you before—we cry blood. A very good reason not to cry in public. Come here,” he said calmly, once again pulling her towards him. She tried to push him away but he only laughed. When he had her as he wanted her, with her face very close to his, he began to lick her blood tears, his tongue moving ever so languorously in and out of his mouth across her closed lids, her cheeks, her chin, the line of her jaw. "Unthinkable ... to ... waste ... them...” he whispered as he slowly ran his tongue across her lips. For a second she completely forgot about the dead body. "Sadash...” she groaned, clasping him around the waist and turning her head to offer her neck to him. He kissed her neck, laughing softly to himself. "What's so funny?” she said, suddenly pushing him away. "You. How you can switch from one mood to another like this. It's delicious, simply delicious, your passion. Give me your hands,” he said. And in the same lazy manner he licked her fingers clean, his eyes moving up only now and then to meet hers. “There. Finished." "Everything is so simple for you. Everything is feeling,” she said, reproach evident in her voice. "Yes, we're slaves of feeling ... much more than any human could ever be." There was a silence. "You would love it, wouldn't you, if I were a merciless killer?” she said. He seemed surprised. “How far from the truth. Somehow I knew you'd always keep your humanity. Maybe that's what drew me to you in the first place. You're strong and yet gentle. But you better be careful of this gentleness ... it might end up being your downfall." "How?" "I already explained to you about suicide and about the wish for self destruction. Guilt can lead you to it. And loneliness. Think about a lack of strength to keep up with the times, to keep up with the different generations and with the death of your loved ones. Think about it. Loving humans and watching them age and die, then doing the same thing again and again in front of your eyes. Yes, Alana. Immortality is terrifying." "But vampires ... don't they have covens? Don't they stay together?" "Look at me. I'm a loner. And so are the majority of vampires. The truth is, except for Makers and their Fledglings, who share an unexplainable bond of unconditional loyalty and love, many vampires live to hate their own kind. It's strange, but that's how it is. On the other hand, vampires love mortals, which is even

worse. Think of the horror. Loving mortals, then feeding on them, killing them. "This contradiction is enough to drive any vampire mad, believe me. The odd thing is, instead of keeping their emotional distance, vampires many times take a special fascination or fancy to a mortal. They follow the mortal, they even get to know the mortal, then they kill the mortal. Sadomasochistic. Even if they don't kill them, it's still sadomasochistic, because they'll have to watch them grow old and die. Yes, Alana. They hate their own kind and they can't get close to humans except to feed on them, so the only thing left for them is themselves and their loneliness." For a moment Alana stared despondently at her hands. To watch her loved ones grow old and die.... To watch her beautiful Valeria grow old and die ... Unthinkable. "No, don't even think about it,” he warned her. "Can you still hear my thoughts?” Alana said, surprised. He shook his head. “No. Unfortunately for me and fortunately for you. Unless you wish me to hear them, of course. Otherwise, you're a blank wall." Alana smiled, feeling better already. “But how did you know...?" "Give me a little credit, will you? I've known you for twelve years. I know how your mind works. And I know how much you love her." After a thoughtful pause, she said, “But why not? Why not, if I want to, make her like me?" "No, Alana. In time you'll make your own Fledglings, but only after you've come to understand the immensity of what you are. It would be wrong to do otherwise. It would be wrong for you as well as for her. And remember you can't turn everybody you grow to love into a vampire . You must come to accept their humanity and their vulnerabilities and their deaths.” Then he added, throwing her a sardonic look, “Don't worry, that's why I'm here. To guide you and make sure you don't commit any atrocities." Alana took a deep breath, her eyes downcast and somber. Of course, it made sense. But still... "I mean it,” he said. She looked at him with piercing eyes. Then, telepathically, she told him, Okay, okay! Good. Can we always communicate like this? If you wish. But I prefer to talk. It keeps me closer to humanity. Humanity? My God ... What kind of a creature are you? I don't know if you're an angel or a devil. Remember what you told me. The Devil is also an angel. Was.

In spite of her sore mood, Alana laughed. “This is so incredible." "You'll soon get used to it. Remember you're only a newborn." "Can I, if I want to, read people's thoughts as easily as I just read yours?" "Not in the beginning. It depends on the strength of the person's will, on his ability to hide his thoughts, or on his state of mind. It even depends on your own state of mind. You'll find it almost impossible to scan minds if you're under heavy pressure or excitement. On the other hand, even without your wanting to, you'll be able to see vivid images popping out of people's minds. There aren't strict rules. It's unpredictable. You'll have to train your mind. Right now, until you gradually learn to control it, the best thing to do is to shut off all these images and voices you're receiving. Otherwise you'll go crazy." She stared at him. A vampire with a dimple on the cheek and a Spiderman T-shirt and a Porsche. For a moment she closed her eyes. What a surrealistic nightmare! But it was real, so real. "Well ... Are you satisfied?” he asked. She stiffened. “Why do you ask?" "Maybe you should feed again ... before we go to sleep." "No, I don't want to,” she quietly said. Sadash shrugged, turning on the ignition. “As you wish." "What about you?" He seemed disgusted by the idea. “Are you crazy? Would you eat a soggy hamburger and grease-soaked fries after having had the most exquisite gourmet meal?" **** Twenty-five minutes later they arrived at his house. The first thing Alana noticed were the trees—huge trees with massive crowns of dark lush leaves. Then the wind blew and rustled the leaves and Alana caught a glimpse of the house. White, two-stories high, the little balconies on the second floor reminding her of Spain. The wide front yard kept it private and considerably apart from the street. A sleek black Firebird was parked in the driveway. "You have a Firebird, too? That's my favorite car,” she said, getting out of the Porsche. "That's your car,” he said. Her eyes widened. She felt a rush of happiness, but she couldn't help thinking, Already trying to appease his conscience... She smiled. “It's gorgeous. It looks like a coffin on wheels." "Lord, how morbid you are!” Sadash said, leading her by the hand to the entrance of the house, the wind tousling his hair. “Sorry, but your first test drive will have to be tonight. We don't have much time now."

Clasping his hand, she looked up at the velvet sky. Soon it would be sunrise. But she would not see it. She would never see the light of the sun again, but the thought didn't bother her. She remembered how, only hours ago, she had stood on her balcony admiring the sunset. How she had been strangely affected by the beauty of the sun dipping low into the horizon, just as if she had known it would be her last. And her thoughts about God... She shivered, following him into the house. Though old, it was beautifully kept. Crossing the dark living room she could smell the light dust on the heavy velvet curtains, on the chandeliers. The light of the moon filtered through one of the windows and for a moment made the marble floor glow. The furniture was classical, as were the paintings on the walls. "The bedrooms are upstairs. There you'll find everything you'll need for the first few days. I'll show them to you tonight, after we rise. I didn't get you a lot of things because I wanted you to choose everything. We'll go on a shopping spree tomorrow. I want you to get whatever you like. Forget all your old clothes and things. They belong to the past. Everything must be new: clothes, jewelry, makeup, perfumes. Everything. I want to spoil you, to indulge your tiniest little whim,” he said impulsively, giving her hand a tight little squeeze. So generous ... But ... He seduced me, he knows he did, he didn't really give me a choice ... and now he's making up for it... He led her into another room, a study, presumably, filled with ceiling-to-floor bookcases and a state-of-the-art stereo system and a huge widescreen TV. “This is where I spend all of my time ... when I'm in the house,” he said. Propped against the wall was a large, beautifully wrapped package. Shiny red wrapping paper, sparkling golden ribbons. "That is for you,” Sadash said. She looked at him. She felt overwhelmed. Curiously, she walked up to it. "It looks so pretty. I'm almost afraid to tear off the paper." But she did. When she saw what was inside it she gasped and stepped back. "I have been saving it for you for the last twelve years,” he said. It was the oil painting of the fallen angel she had seen that fatal night in the Grand Bazaar. If anything, it looked even more disturbing now. "I remember,” Alana murmured, studying the intricate details, the virulent clouds and rising winds, the agonizing faces of the angels surrounding the fallen one, whose expression radiated incredulity and rage. The wooden frame was beautifully carved and painted in antique gold. She lifted it from the floor and gazed at it at arms’ length. She sighed. “It is magnificent ... and very appropriate." There was a heavy silence.

"Is this me—this fallen angel with auburn curls?" "I won't have you talking this nonsense. You had fallen in love with it, and I went and got it for you." "You have to admit the strangeness, the morbidity of it.” After studying it for a long time she gingerly placed it back against the wall. He turned her to him. “Just rip it apart if it offends you. Do you want me to bring a knife?" She could tell he was serious. "Don't be silly. I would never destroy such a beautiful painting. Besides, I love it. I want to keep it." She held him suddenly, wrapping her arms round his waist and burying her face in his chest. She felt him relax under her affectionate, almost desperate gesture. She could feel him kissing the top of her head and stroking her long hair. Sadash led her by the hand. “Come, my love." They went into another room, this one without windows and empty and smaller, with a heavy wooden door at the end of it. The door had four locks. Sadash looked at the door and the locks jerked open. After following him down a steep set of stairs, Alana found herself in a cellar. Total darkness, and yet she could see everything, like a cat. The air was cool and heavy with humidity. "Coffins,” she said, a bit startled by their blackness, by their sleek crudeness. They were the only two things in the cellar. Two open black coffins with red silk interiors ... side by side. "I told you they make me feel safe. What can I say? I'm an old-fashioned kind of guy." "No torchlights? There are always torchlights in the movies,” she said. "The only torchlight we need is already in our eyes. Now, stop making fun of me and come here,” he said, standing between the two coffins. Alana stepped towards him. He had turned oddly quiet, his features solemn. He ran his fingers through her hair, gently pushing the strands away from her forehead. Instinctively, she clasped her arms around his waist. Gazing at her, Sadash took a long deep breath. She did the same, mimicking him. For a long moment they stood looking at each other. Then she glanced at one of the coffins. “I don't want to sleep there—alone, I mean. I want to sleep with you. I don't care if I'm a coward,” she said. He seemed surprised. “Who said you would sleep alone? I bought the extra coffin only for when we have fights." Even in a situation such as this, he still had the power to make her laugh.

**** Valeria arrived at the apartment at eight o'clock. She had had to work overtime again. Miguel had asked her to stay with him till ten, but she had refused. She had been nervous and sullen all day, but when Miguel had asked her what was wrong she had only shrugged her shoulders and kept silent. She had been distracted, her concentration totally gone. The only things on her mind were Alana and the strange and surprising little note Alana had left her two nights ago. The whole thing seemed so odd! Alana had wanted her to come home early. She had wanted to talk to her about something obviously important, but when Valeria had come home Alana had disappeared and only left a short note saying that Sadash had come for her and that they would spend the next couple of days together and that she would call her in one or two days. Alana had also said not to worry. The little slut! She really had guts! Well, Valeria had made a decision: if Alana didn't call her by midnight tonight she was going to call the police. After taking off her suit and putting on a T-shirt and shorts, Valeria went into the kitchen to fix herself a sandwich. But in the middle of preparing it she decided she wasn't hungry and just left the things on the kitchen counter and grabbed a beer from the fridge. A wave of nervousness rushed over her. She sank into the living room sofa and turned on the TV. Sipping her beer, she tried to watch a comedy show. Then she changed her mind. She turned off the TV and walked into the bathroom to take a shower. What if Sadash had kidnapped her and forced her to write the note? He was a total stranger. Alana had only known him for a few hours. How could she suddenly decide to elope with a man in this fashion? Unless ... unless he wasn't really a stranger. Maybe Alana had met him long before but kept their relationship a secret. After all, Alana had been acting secretive and strange for the past few weeks. Yes, this had to be it. But they were like sisters, they told each other everything. Why keep it a secret? And what about the murder of that kid in Amanita Street? And Victor, who she had called at the nightclub last night, telling her that Alana had not shown up for work but that a substitute manager had been sent by the owner of the club. Valeria squeezed the excess water from her hair and wrapped herself in a towel. The bathroom was muggy and the mirror hazy from the vapor. She wiped the mirror with her hand and began to towel-dry her hair. Her skin was flush from the hot shower. After combing her hair and brushing her teeth, she turned to open the door. But when she swung open the door, she found herself face to face with Alana. Valeria flinched back, her eyes wide with surprise. “For God's sake!” she breathed, bringing a hand to her chest as if she could restrain the voluptuous heaving of her breasts. “You scared the hell out of me! Where on earth have you been? I was going to call the police." "That's why I decided to come ... so you wouldn't call the police."

"God, you almost gave me a heart attack!” Valeria wrapped the towel tighter around her. “Are you okay?" "Yes ... sure. Why shouldn't I be?" Something different about her ... the eyes blacker ... the voice thicker.... "I don't know. You tell me. All of a sudden disappearing like that and leaving just a little note. It's not like you,” Valeria said. Then she noticed Alana's eyes were bizarrely fixed on her neck. “What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?" "It's just your veins ... I can see them so clearly." Valeria frowned, staring at her. “Have you been drinking? What do my veins have to do with anything? You wouldn't believe how worried I've been. I couldn't even work today.” She walked past Alana to her bedroom. Alana followed her. “That's why I left you a note, so you wouldn't worry,” she said, crossing the bedroom and standing by the sliding glass door, which was open. "How was I supposed to know someone hadn't made you write that note?" "Really, Valeria! I thought I was the only one around here with the wild imagination. Don't be silly." "It's my fault, for caring. I shouldn't have cared." A soft breeze swept in from the balcony and ruffled the curtains and played with Alana's hair. She appeared ... more beautiful. She had always been beautiful, but somehow she now looked more beautiful. There was an unusual inner glow to her eyes, and her hair seemed thicker, its reddish hue more lustrous than before. And for the first time Valeria noticed Alana's clothes. New clothes, sleek and expensive. A black satin blouse and black slacks and black leather high-heeled boots. "Already accepting his gifts?” Valeria said, unable to stop herself. But Alana only smiled, forgivingly, as if she understood all about Valeria's anger and confusion. Alana glanced down at her own clothes, then back at Valeria. “Do you like them?" Valeria shrugged. “Not bad.” Then she bent over to fetch underwear from the dresser. “Excuse me, but I have to get dressed." "Do you want me to leave?" Valeria shrugged again. She was going to give Alana the “indifference treatment." "I don't care,” she said. She tossed the towel onto the bed and slipped into lilac lace panties, trying to ignore Alana's presence in the room, trying her best not to look at her. But while she was getting dressed she experienced the most peculiar sensation. Usually, whenever she changed clothes and Alana happened to be around, Valeria always acted totally natural and unconscious about her nudity. She was never shy like Alana. But now a strong appalling sensation took possession of her, as if she could literally feel the power of Alana's gaze piercing through her like a stiletto.

And when she finally finished dressing and looked at Alana, she saw the oddest expression on her face. "Is something wrong?” Valeria said. "No, nothing.... “Alana mumbled, glancing down to the floor as if she had been caught doing something shameful. Valeria hesitated, momentarily at loss for words. What a strange sensation. As if sensing her sudden daze, Alana casually said, “Well? Aren't you curious about what I did these last two days?" "Why should I be? From now on you keep your secrets and I keep mine." "Ah, so that's why you're so angry, because I didn't tell you about Sadash. But there's nothing to tell. Really. I ... I was powerfully drawn to him ... I thought you would understand. You... of all people. You know about passion. You know about desire." Valeria slowly shook her head, incredulous. “Do you really expect me to believe this? That you met a guy for a few hours and went crazy in love and jumped into bed with him? You, Alana? I would have believed this of anyone else. But you? You?" "Let's not get insulting here,” Alana teased. “You're hurting my feelings." "Always that sense of humor,” Valeria said coldly. “That's what I love about you the most—your damned sense of humor." Alana stretched out her arms toward her. “Let's be friends. Let's be twin souls again ... please,” she said, her voice so beckoning, so seductively imploring. Valeria took a deep breath, repressing a smile. Then she said in a sullen mood, “What's wrong with your voice? Are you getting a cold?" Alana smiled. Instantly she walked over to Valeria and pulled her into her arms. For a moment Valeria closed her eyes, reluctantly responding to the embrace. So easy to melt to her wishes, to feel weak inside the coziness of her arms. "Are we twin souls again?” Alana said, pulling herself away from Valeria but still clasping her forearms. "One of these days I'm going to kill you." "Too late for that,” Alana said under her breath. "What?" "Nothing." But Valeria had heard it. And then, just as abruptly as she had embraced her, Alana pulled herself away and went over to stand again by the sliding glass door. For a moment she gazed out toward the sky, her back to Valeria. "Valeria ... I'm moving in with him."

"You're moving in with him...” Valeria repeated, baffled. “But..." Slowly Alana turned around to face her. “But what?" "But how can you? Just like that, I mean. You don't know this guy. Or do you? Who is he? How long have you known him?" "Don't worry. There's nothing illegal about him. He's a ... software engineer. He has his own firm. X-Net. He's twenty-eight. Irresistibly handsome. Rich. Single. Of Turkish descendent—no terrorist background. Heterosexual. Are you satisfied?" "I've never heard of any X-Net." "And I don't expect you to. It's in Miami, but he's opening an office here in San Juan." "Uh-huh.... And how long have you known him?" "I saw him first the night of the opening. I told you that." "So he just swept you off your feet..." "What did you think? That I would die a virgin?" "No.... It's not that. It's just ... I don't believe you,” Valeria said, wondering why she was suddenly so convinced Alana wasn't telling her the truth. "I'm sorry if you don't. I really am,” Alana said sadly. “Because I don't have anything else to tell you. Except don't worry about me. I can't stand it if you worry about me." "You're in trouble..." "Your eyes look so beautiful when you look at me like that. So serious. So moist and big and brown,” Alana said. She ran the tip of her tongue across her lips to moisten them. But Valeria ignored her remark. A sudden fear closed her throat. “You're in trouble. I know it ... I can feel it." Alana laughed. “What's this? Your famous ESP again?" "Something has happened to you. You've changed." "Changed? What an odd choice of words. Changed. How?" "I don't know. I just don't know how. But you have changed. You're supposed to be at La Cueva. You're supposed to be working right now. Did you quit? Victor told me someone sent a substitute for you last night." Alana was still laughing, lazily pacing the room. “A substitute? Really? A vampire substitute?” She took a deep breath, trying to sober up. “Oh, Valeria, you're so sweet, you're so innocent. I love your innocence. I could fill myself with your innocence. But please don't make me laugh. You know how I cry when I laugh a lot. And you don't want to see me crying. Believe me, you don't want to see me crying." Something in Alana's laugh raced her pulse. But hell, she couldn't define what it was. But there was that unnatural glimmer of the eyes, that perfect whiteness of her

teeth and that perfect creaminess of her skin, like alabaster. "I should go,” Alana finally said, sober now. In fact, her expression had turned morose. “Don't worry, okay? I'll be fine. Believe me when I tell you I'm having a great time. I'll call you up soon. Or I'll come to visit.” Then she added, a softly pleading smile on her face, “I wish you'd be happy for me.” And she turned to go. "No, wait!" "What?" "You don't understand. Don't you think I'd be happy for you if I believed all this were true? But it's just ... too good to be true. And I know you're lying to me. I can feel it. There's something wrong somewhere. I'm sure of it." "What? What could be wrong? Tell me." " You tell me. You're the one who knows." "Think about it. Maybe you're just jealous." "No, I'm not!” Valeria protested, blushing. But this momentarily stopped her. Okay, she admitted it, she was jealous. It's not that she didn't wish Alana all the happiness in the world. Dear God, she would give her life for her! So strong was her bond. But how couldn't she be jealous? They had just moved in together, they had made so many plans, their lives were so perfect ... Everything was perfect. The twin souls. The two musketeers. The redhead and the blond. Just like when they were little. Yes, she was jealous of losing her again, just as she had lost her when Alana had gone off to Boston. But this wasn't only a matter of jealousy. What Alana was telling her didn't make sense. Why everything so suddenly? Why did she have to move in with that man? The hell, she didn't need to move in with a man to get laid! And to quit her job! No, no, no. It didn't make sense. Alana was staring at her with narrowed eyes. “I love you,” she said. Valeria appeared transfixed. “You're giving me goose bumps,” she whispered. “Tell me what's wrong. What the hell is this? You don't have to move in with him! Why do you have to move in with him? And why are you quitting your job? This is crazy!" But Alana was already heading to the front door. "Alana!” Valeria went after her. “If you're moving in with him, why haven't you packed? Where's your luggage?" Alana stopped at the doorway and turned around to face her. There was something imploring yet menacing on her face. “I made a mistake. I should never have come." "Alana, let me help you. Whatever it is...” Valeria made an attempt to hold Alana's hand but Alana jerked it away. “Where are you going? Can you at least give me an address, or a number where I can reach you?"

"I think we were mistaken,” Alana said, as if she hadn't heard her. “There aren't any twin souls. It was an illusion. A wonderful illusion. Forget about it." "Don't go...” Valeria pleaded, confusion mingled with unexplained fear. “Remember the pact..." All of a sudden Alana grabbed her by the back of the neck and, mafia style, roughly, cruelly kissed her on the lips. Then she pushed her away and whispered, “There's your pact." Valeria brought a hand to her bruised lips, stunned. Then Alana disappeared down the hall and into the elevator, her long red hair flaring behind her like a cape. **** During the next few weeks Alana kept away from her. She did come to her apartment one more time, long after midnight and not knowing exactly why she had come, only to find Valeria wrapped inside Humberto's arms. Naked, profoundly asleep, their heavy breathing the only sound in the darkness. From the balcony, almost hypnotized, Alana had watched them for a long time. Their bodies molded into each other in such a human and perfect way ... and the beauty of their limbs and the rise and fall of their chests. She listened to their heartbeats, and smelled their spent passion. Alana grimaced, feeling a stab of desire, her malignant teeth lengthening in spite of her own will to repress them. She pressed her open palms against the glass door, the tip of her nose pressed against the glass. She instantly knew Humberto had been Valeria's first lover. Lies, lies, lies. Why were there so many lies when there was so much love? But Alana didn't feel anger nor betrayal. What she felt was ... sadness. And loneliness. She remembered what Sadash had said about loneliness. But already, so fast, after only a few weeks? Keep away from them... Yes, she would keep away from them. Especially from Valeria, her beloved twin soul, her sister ... so playful and giving, such a slave of the senses.... ....What would she taste like? No, no, no ... Stay away from her! Yes, she had to stay away from Valeria. Besides, she had other more important matters to think of. Her new powers, for instance. Her wondrous yet maddening, irrepressible vision, which she had to learn to control. And then there was her mother...

Why was she suddenly obsessed by the idea that what the gypsy old woman had told her was true? She would ask Sadash. In a way she was afraid of what his response might be, but she would ask him. **** But when Alana was with Sadash she never felt lonely. He was her teacher, her god. To be with him was both wonderful and terrifying. He never stopped amazing her. It was a mystery, how he could be so cruel and merciless with some of his victims yet so gentle and adoring with her. He was the ultimate predator. No scruples, no guilt, no misgivings. He strolled the dark city streets and took his victims in a cold and calculated way. And always the cleanest of jobs. Never a trace of blood on his clothes—no need to get attention. Hardly ever did he kill his victims. Again, no need to get attention. As he would tell her again and again and again, there was no such thing as being too cautious, for there existed secret organizations who not only actually believed in the existence of vampires but were also obsessed by the idea of gathering information about them and tracking them down. He drank a little bit here, a little bit there. Once in a while he led Alana on a rampage and took little drinks from a dozen in the course of a night, always healing the wound on their necks or wrists afterwards. Indeed, if any vampire wished it, not even a slight mark of teeth was left on the victim's skin. This was a power they possessed, the power of healing. Though this power was weak in young vampires it strengthened with time. Alana, for instance, didn't yet have the power of ultimate healing. Little punctured scars were always left on her victims’ flesh. In all the old vampire myths and legends where victims had been found with punctured wounds, it meant that the attacker had been a young vampire. Mature vampires never left even a little scratch. The length of time required to attain Vampiric Maturity—the ability of a vampire to fully understand and control his powers—differed from one vampire to another and was influenced by a number of factors. A vampire created by a young vampire would require a longer time to attain Maturity than a vampire created by a mature vampire, which had been Sadash's case and was now Alana's case. Hence the power was carried in the blood and passed on through the blood. Moreover, this miracle healing worked only on the wounds they themselves inflicted. Alana, for instance, couldn't heal wounds inflicted by Sadash, nor vice versa. But, as Sadash explained to her, this urge to lead blood rampages were sporadic, maybe once every few years. Sometimes he would go without a drop for days, or even weeks. He liked big strong men with rape and murder in their past. Yes, Sadash acted especially brutal with these. But his favorites seemed to be young prostitutes. He was gentle with these, even loving, and he never killed them. Alana enjoyed watching him pierce their throats, though almost always it made her jealous. After a feed they went to bars, to discos, to casinos, to the movies, to art galleries. Sometimes they strolled on the beach. On Friday nights, when the malls closed at ten o'clock, they went shopping, walking into the most expensive stores

and trying on the most sophisticated silks and wools and linens and velvets. They loved sitting down and watching the shoppers stroll by and joked about how this woman or that man would taste. Imagine! Joking about it! Once, while they were engaged in this little game, Alana saw for the first time two other vampires. Two lovely women, both in their twenties, elegantly dressed, with shopping bags in their hands. They acknowledged Alana and Sadash with a steady, knowing look in their eyes. Cold acknowledgment. We know what you are, you know what we are. Keep your distance. Alana had looked at Sadash. Maker and Fledgling, he had said, perfectly indifferent. How strange, that these lovely vampire creatures didn't want to have anything to do with them. Had they, in turn, found Alana and Sadash as beautifully indifferent, as cold? But sometimes, when they didn't go to malls, Alana and Sadash went flying. Under black velvet skies full of stars and over the shimmering waters of the Caribbean, the salty reek of the wind hitting their faces. Slow, ever so slow ... fast, faster ... higher and higher ... then low, ever so slow again.... ascending and descending with the effortless grace of a feather. Just like Superman and Lois Lane. But not even the miracle of flying compared with the mind-shattering ecstasy of the blood draught. Other nights they sat in his study, listening to music, or reading, or watching TV or talking. It was during one of these nights that Sadash finally opened up and revealed some of his past. He was stretched out on the sofa and she was sitting in an armchair with her bent legs under her. They had just rented the movie Amadeus, which both of them had already watched a few times in the past. Sadash had a Yamaha home-movie center complete with Bose speakers, and the music had been ecstatic. Sunrise was an hour away. He asked her to close her eyes and order her mind to receive. Alana did as she was told. Then a series of images began to flow into her brain. Overwhelming, the magnitude of this images and their rich detail and color, as if she were in them and part of them. And then she heard Sadash's telepathic voice, that inner voice that so often in the past had invaded her mind and that she had known since she was ten. Ours was an age of magnificence, an age of conquerors. An age of battles and victories and savagery and blood. The Ottoman Empire was at the height of its territorial expansion, its borders encompassing all of southeastern Europe, Anatolia, part of the Arab World, and the North African coast as far west as Algeria. I was born the third son to the Padisha, spoilt to the point of rottenness but trained relentlessly as a warrior. After I became sixteen, I hardly spent any time in the palace, but instead was constantly sent to battles in what was an aggressive military campaign to expand our boundaries and multiply our riches. By the time I became twenty-three I already was a high commander in the army and was known for my fierce and methodical battles against the armies of the Holy League. I can say with an almost absolute conviction that had I lived longer I would have succeeded my father as the next Padisha. The dynasty was passed on not

necessarily to the oldest son but to the ablest, and my two older brothers were more interested in the pleasures of the harem than in the blood of battle. But destiny always enjoys playing tricks on us, and my future turned out quite differently. Marriages were arranged early in those days. I was married when I was seventeen, to a Romanian princess who served to consolidate a friendly pact from her country to our empire. By the time I was twenty-three she had given me a daughter and two sons. Geylan, my daughter, was the firstborn ... and there was nothing on earth I wouldn't do for her. She was so much like you, with her long red hair and brilliant black eyes ... so soft and sweet. I didn't feel anything more than respect for my wife. No love was involved. Though it's true I began showing her affection after the birth of my children, especially while she was pregnant. But I really saw little of her, and any sexual desires I might have were satisfied by the women of the harem. Beautiful faces, beautiful bodies. A few hours of pleasure. Nothing more. But my daughter.... She was my first love. It's strange, and I don't understand it myself, but my daughter was the biggest reason I always came back to the palace. She was my jewel, so loving, so full of that sweet childish enthusiasm. It was delicious and surprising, the way I became clay in her hands, succumbing to her most ridiculous little wish. The fervent way she wrapped her little white arms around my neck, begging me to dress her up as a boy soldier and take her with me into the battlefield ... The first female to make me realize that I had not a heart of steel, that I was vulnerable... Geylan died when she was ten, fallen to a strange disease we didn't know anything about in those days. I can only say that my only escape was war. Kill the enemy, spill blood—this was the only way I knew how to fight my pain. In 1683, two months after her death, I was sent to Vienna on a grand second attempt to seize this city, which we had failed to capture years before. But on the long journey across the Balkans I began to have a series of strange dreams ... a woman. There was always the same woman in my dreams. A beautiful middle-aged woman with long curly black hair and dark blue eyes. I had seen this woman before. I remembered her face perfectly well. There had been a grand banquet at the palace a few months back, and she had been there. At one instant during the dinner she had smiled at me from across the long table, but there had been more than a hundred guests that night, and I had not seen her again after this. She had the looks of a noble, wrapped in silks and velvets, her neck and wrists and fingers lavishly adorned with jewels. The only thing in my dreams was her face. Understanding, smiling, beckoning. But it was this simplicity what made them disturbing. I couldn't understand it. Why was I dreaming again and again of a woman I had only seen once at a banquet that had taken place months ago? It is true that I was in an awfully depressed state of mind because of Geylan's death, but I couldn't find any connection between this woman and what had happened to my daughter. So I tried to ignore these dreams

and toss them out of my mind. I had been sent to Vienna on a grand mission, I had a whole army behind me to lead and protect. I couldn't allow myself to be distracted by any kind of irrational dreams. Weeks passed, and many more dreams. And it was then, on the eve of our attack to the Austrian city, that I was turned into a vampire. It was so ridiculously simple ... I was alone in my tent, going over some maps and charts of our battle strategy when she appeared in the tent. You can imagine my shock. Impossible to think what she was doing there or how she had gotten there in the first place, for there were six guards outside to protect my tent. I stood frozen under the power of her gaze. She only spoke a few words, her voice like satin ... I was the chosen one, I was the one to receive her precious gift of immortality ... and she desired so to heal my wounds, to soothe my pain... I didn't have the power to resist or make a choice. I was taken ... lovingly, yes, but taken nonetheless. Together we were for more than a century, traveling incessantly across Europe and Asia. We visited all the most important cities and all of the not so important ones, raiding the streets of London and Paris and Amsterdam and all the rest of them, learning new languages, reading tons of books by the week, mingling with the best of human and vampiric crowds. She was an old vampire, a lot older than I am now, and a patient teacher. I had been right about her. She was a Hungarian duchess, forty-two years old when given the Immortal Blood, and rich, very rich. During the first hundred years I did many crazy things, making Fledglings of my own out of first impulses, leaving trails of blood wherever I went.... extremely dangerous for a vampire in those dark and superstitious days. Indeed, in those days there were places in Europe were vampires weren't only the hunters but also the hunted. We're immortal, yes, but as I explained you before we can be burned, we can suffer unbearable pain until our bodies crumble into ashes, and some of our kind were actually captured and thrown into pyres. Their ignorance — they believed we could be eternally destroyed in this way! Most of the victims were innocent, of course, wrongly accused, just as most of the women during the witch hysteria were innocent and wrongly accused. Dark, dark times, especially in the Slavic lands. But as I was saying, I was embittered. I resented her. As much as I came to adore her, I resented her. I was immortal. I killed people and drank their blood. I loathed what I was ... and loved it. And it was this contradiction of feelings what made me act in an irrational way. Sometimes, overcome with guilt, I cried after a feast. And yet sometimes I enjoyed torturing my victims before the kill. I killed and I killed, but it was so different than in the battlefield. It was this resentment what finally made me leave her. She accepted it. She knew it would happen. There comes a time when a Fledgling must leave his or her Maker. And my time had come. We will always be bonded, she and I. Our ties can never be broken, the same way ours will never be broken.

I became a loner, until I decided to make another Fledgling. A young man, this time. It turned out to be a complete disaster—but that is another story. After this I decided to move to America and put all my efforts into building up my bank account. The New World. Europe was finished for me. I already had acquired a small fortune—part of it from my own treasures as a mortal, the other part stolen from my wealthy victims—and I invested this into bonds and began to use the profits to buy taverns, clubs, restaurants. I became a businessman, chose my agents with extreme care, giving them lavish salaries not to ask questions and make up for my odd hours and requirements. For a long time I lived in California. Then I moved to New York. Later to Miami. Impossible for me to stay too long in the same place. I get restless and bored. Twelve years ago I felt a sudden urge to go back to Istanbul, drawn by an unexplainable belief that I had to go there, that something or someone was waiting for me. When I first lay eyes on you I instantly knew you were the magnet. It was you ... and in a strange way it was also Geylan. I was shocked, that two people could be so physically alike ... and you were ten, as old as she had been when she died. But you were Alana. Restless and rebellious Alana. An innocent child with the strong will and the seductive black eyes of a woman. And I desired you more than I had ever desired another mortal. I had to have you. And I did. And that is that. Why do we exist? When did we come to exist? Who or What do we come from? These are questions I cannot answer for you. It seems to me we evolved from something, just as human beings evolved from something, but from what, I do not know. And no vampire I have ever met has even had the slightest answer. Why does life exist? For what purpose? What came first, the chicken or the egg? The same unanswerable questions. And the same mystery applies to us, Alana. Writers write about our origins, about our evilness, our pacts with the Devil. And I laugh. What pact? What Devil? Is a fly, which is the cause of so much disease and death in the world, evil? Is a wolf evil, when he crushes the neck of the lamb? No, my Alana. We are here, we exist, just as flies and wolves exist. Our being here has nothing to do with evil. We have a nature that drives us, and we cannot fight this nature. In spite of our intellect, we cannot. That is the tragedy of it, our intellect. For it is driven by the lust of the blood. A mature vampire can learn to control this lust. A young vampire cannot. He must kill. His nature forces him to do so. You are living the agony now, are you not ... along with the glorious pleasure? A pleasure you cannot get from jars of blood in a blood bank. Because it is more than the blood itself, is it not? It is not only the nourishment. It is the thrill of the impaling the flesh. It is the mind-shattering intimacy. No, my beautiful one, you are not evil. You are beautiful, in flesh and in essence and in heart. Just like the mountain wolf, just like the tiger. This is what I believe. But then, you already know I do not believe in the Devil, or in an Absolute Evil. ****

Alana opened her eyes as if she had woken from a dark and sumptuous dream. She had seen, heard, smelled every detail. She had felt everything as if she had been part of that ancient and majestic world. More than anything, seeing Sadash as a mortal man had been breathtaking. Even then, he had been magnificent and Alana could easily understand the reason why the woman vampire had chosen him. In battle he had been fierce, merciless, a killing machine with a genius mind for military strategy. And yet in his daughter's arms he had been so tender, so caring. Geylan, his daughter... But before she could even think of something to say, Sadash began to talk. "Yes ... part of what drew me to you was your uncanny resemblance to her. But only for a moment. I am not a psychologist, but I don't need to be one to tell you this is not a case of replacement. You're my immortal lover ... and she was my mortal daughter. Your resemblance to her only makes you a little bit more special to me." "Only a little bit?" He straightened himself up on the sofa. “Okay. A little bit more than a little bit. But that is all. Take that accusatory expression off your face." Alana remained silent. But she couldn't help thinking that she also was, in fact, his daughter. His child of darkness. That by making her immortal he had transformed her into his immortal daughter, an immortal daughter who shared a striking resemblance with his mortal daughter. "I wonder what Freud would say about this,” Alana said. "Keep Freud out of this. He was a sexually-repressed madman,” he said. Alana snorted disdainfully. His eyes narrowed. “ Lahanet olsun... Take that damnable expression off your face or I'm going to..." "Or you're going to what?" "Give you a bite you will never forget. No, but really. Don't spend your precious intellect on something as trivial as this. Didn't you feel my absolute devotion, my indisputable love when I made you?" She shrugged. “I don't know." "Of course you do. You're doing this out of an eternal desire to argue with the people around you." "Do you believe in reincarnation? Maybe you believe I'm your reincarnated daughter." He sighed. “It wouldn't matter one way or the other to me. Don't you see? I think I regret it. I shouldn't have told you about her." "Why not? No, really. Maybe I'm your reincarnated daughter. You said I wrapped my arms around you on my own accord that first time. Don't you think

that's odd?" "There's no way of knowing that. But I told you, it doesn't matter one way or the other to me. You are you, Alana. I don't care for any ghosts of the past to come back. I only want you,” he said seriously. Then he smiled and extended his arm towards her. “Come here." "Go to hell." "Come here, I said." She got up and grudgingly sank into the sofa beside him, refusing to take his hand. She didn't know whether to believe him or not, and she was jealous. “If I hadn't looked like your daughter, you would never have given me a second look,” she said. He pulled her to him. “No...” he slowly said, as if recalling that night. “Part of it was the resemblance, I can't deny that. As well as the way you were enraptured by that oil painting.” He gestured to the painting of the fallen angel now beautifully displayed on one wall. “But it was your smell, your powerful child-woman smell, what drew me to you. You see, for the first time in your life you were ... in that time of the month." Alana stared at him, speechless. Seeing the expression on her face, he suddenly laughed. "My God! You're ... You're ... I don't have adjectives for you!” she said, a wave of heat rising to her cheeks. "But you're pleased now, aren't you?” he said, satisfied. “So you see, it wouldn't have mattered if you looked like her or not. I would have sensed you a mile away. You were a little nymph, and you were, most tragically, in the wrong place at the wrong time." To her chagrin, Alana felt her canines beginning to grow. He slowly bit his lower lip. “Yes, I made an excellent choice,” he said, as though relishing her inability to control her passion. “It couldn't have been better." Seeing him biting his lip reminded her of Valeria. He lowered his head to kiss her neck, but she pushed him away. “Not so fast. I want to ask you something,” she said, wanting him to suffer. He sighed. “You really are the cruelest creature. What is it? Why are your eyes so sad?" "What you said about Fledglings and how the time comes when they feel they must leave their Makers ... will this ever happen to us?” But she knew the answer to this. He had made Fledglings of his own before, hadn't he? And yet he had been alone for the last hundred years or so. "Don't torment yourself thinking about these things,” he said, gently. “We'll always love and help each other, we'll always be psychically connected, no matter

what. We can't change that. Nothing can change that. It's in our nature. But sooner or later a child feels he must leave his parent, and a parent must accept this, but this doesn't mean their love will ever diminish. Do you understand?" Silently, she nodded. "Live the present, live every second to the fullest. Don't think about the future, ever, or you'll go crazy. Don't you see? The future is meaningless for us,” he said, almost imploringly, as if he couldn't stand the anxiety in her eyes. She remained thoughtful. Live the present, live every second to the fullest ... His words reminded her of ... yes, Valeria. She had many more questions, but they would have to wait. Already she could feel the lethargy, the heaviness in her eyelids and in her limbs ... the approach of dawn. Sadash rose to his feet. “It's almost sunrise." "Sadash.... There's something I must talk to you about. There's something I must ask you,” she suddenly said, looking up at him. "What is it?" "It's about what the gypsy woman said." Silence. She rose from the sofa, gazing intently into his eyes. “Is it true? Was my mother killed? I know it doesn't make sense, but..." "We don't have time now, my beautiful one. The sun..." "I know. Just tell me yes or no." "It isn't that simple. We'll talk tonight about this. I promise you,” he said, taking her hand and leading her down to the cellar. "It isn't that simple? Then it means...?" "It means it isn't that simple." "Just tell me..." "Your eyes are almost closing. Hurry. Tonight...." "Promise me..." "I promise you, my beloved. Come now, jump in, cuddle up in my arms, sleep..."

CHAPTER 10

Alana stood by the large square gilded mirror in the studio, combing her hair. The trappings of wealth, she mused as she looked around the elaborately decorated room. If Uncle Angelo had only managed her money properly, this was everything she would have had growing up. She sighed. Why be angry? That was all so long ago. The TV channel was on the news. She could see the big screen reflected in the mirror. She was restless. As soon as she woke she had become restless with hunger. She threw an impatient look upwards. What was keeping him so long? Did he have to look as if he were a model on his way to a photo shoot out every time he went out? She combed her hair more vigorously now, actually hurting her scalp. On the news they were giving a story about Ice World, San Juan's only skating rink. Alana turned around suddenly, clutching the heavy silver brush in her hands. The anchor explained in a cheerful voice how the rink had been closed for repairs during the last few months and how finally, it was now fully renovated and once again open to the public. Ice World... On the screen they presented the gigantic skating rink, people gliding this way and that, handsome couples hand in hand, smiling children in woolen hats and gloves. Alana dropped the brush to floor and slowly went to sit on the sofa. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her hands on her temples, and closed her eyes. All the memories of that terrible day came to her in a rush and with vivid, preternatural clarity... Twelve-year old Alana had awakened late that terrible day because it was a Saturday and her ice-skating lessons at Ice World weren't until 11:30 a.m. The sun was shining, blinding, and the air felt muggy and unbearably hot. That's why she loved ice skating, because it made her forget the tropical heat and she could pretend—at least for two hours—that she was living in Norway or Sweden or some other cold snow country, though Norway was her favorite. Uncle Angelo was having coffee and talking on the phone. When not in his studio, where he worked on his fashion designs, he was always talking with someone on the phone. When he saw her, he gave her a wink. She stuck out her tongue at him, playfully. After a quick breakfast of milk and cereal she got ready

and went over to wake her mother, who was still sleeping. She approached her mother's bedroom with the same vague dread, though by now she was quite used to it. Her mother's bedroom was always dark, the windows fully closed, the curtains fully drawn, the air conditioning always on. "It's eleven o’ clock,” Alana announced, stepping inside. Silence. "Mami..." "Sweetheart.... What is it?” In the darkness the voice was thick, groggy, muddled with sleep and confusion. "It's eleven o'clock. I have to be at the rink in half an hour, remember?" After a pause, “Tell your uncle to take you, okay? I don't feel well, I need to sleep some more." Disappointment. “You never take me anymore. I want to go with you. I want to show you the new moves I've learned." "No! Don't turn on the lights, my eyes are killing me. My head is killing me." And Alana wanted to tell her, You are killing me. You are killing yourself. "Can you bring me my migraine pills, sweetheart, so I don't have to get up? They're over there, on the dressing table." Alana fetched the little pill box. After opening it, she gave her mother two pills. There was another little pill box on the night table beside her bed, along with a glass of water. Jesus, didn't she ever get mixed up, with all these pill boxes? They all looked alike. Her mother had bought them in Brugge, Belgium, a few years before. They were round and trimmed with gold, and in the center, against a glossy burgundy background, there was a little picture of a lady sitting down and working at her lace. The little picture in itself was an intricate embroidery made in fine white lace. "How's the day?” her mother asked, propping herself up on the pillows. She downed the pills with the glass of water. She looked pale and tired. Her thin brown hair, streaked with reddish highlights, fell tousled on her shoulders, and her dark eyes were slightly puffy and the skin under them a tone darker than the rest of her face. "Like an oven." "Maybe I'll go to the pool later,” her mother said, obviously trying to make up for not bringing her to the rink today. She knew how much Alana loved it when they swam together in the pool, and they had not swam together in weeks. Alana smiled, somewhat placated. “Okay,” she said. "After I rest some more. You go with Uncle Angelo now, and have fun. Maybe we can even have a barbecue tonight. You can ask Valeria to come over, if you want." "Really?"

"Yes, I promise." "Okay, but you promised, don't change your mind later on." Alana leaned over to kiss her, and the smell caught her. A faintly repulsive smell usually hovered about her mother in the mornings. She knew this smell—the rank hangover smell—but even though she was familiar with it, it always managed to repulse her. But no matter. Holding her breath, Alana kissed her, embraced her, and murmured good-bye. Uncle Angelo got her to the rink in time. As usual, he was thoughtful, deeply worried about her mother, but he always tried to put on a cheerful facade for Alana. He also didn't know what to do, Alana was aware of it. How can you help a person who doesn't want to be helped? And Uncle Angelo always seemed under so much pressure, rushing from one place to another like a madman, getting ready for a show or for the next season's collection. Already a recognizable name in Puerto Rico and Miami, he was trying to make the proper connections to sell his latest fashions in other parts of the States and in Europe. So even though he had moved in with them after the death of Alana's father, his goings and comings into the house were very unpredictable. At times he was off of the island for days, other times he stayed at home all day for weeks, either making “connections” over the phone or sketching his creations by the pool. The point was, even though he wanted to help Laura, Laura didn't want to be helped, and he was just too busy to hover over the problem for a continuous amount of time. Also, Laura didn't look as if there was something really wrong with her. She drank a lot, yes, and took sleeping pills, yes. But she wasn't the sleazy drunk type. She never made a scene, she was never in a mad mood. She just drank quietly by herself, and was depressed. And when she fixed her hair and put on make-up and a nice dress, well, she looked beautiful and perfectly normal. If she would have been the sleazy, temperamental drunk type it would have been easier to handle her, easier to make a decision and put her in a hospital. But like this, it wasn't so easy. Laura had been a real estate agent, but had stopped working after Alana's birth. But even after her husband's death, she had not been forced to go back to work. She was more than well off. She and Uncle Angelo had inherited from their parents a nice bank account as well as two properties which were now rented and provided them with what would be considered an adequate monthly income. From her husband she had inherited not only the house and another generous bank account but also a Car-Wash business which, by luck, had turned out to be a little gold mine. So lack of money was not among her problems. Economically speaking, she had everything figured out. She was not a crazy spender. Half of the money she had in the bank she had put into certificates for Alana's education, for Alana's future. These certificates were sacred, untouchable. From the other half she received monthly interest checks. These checks, combined with the money she got from the rents and the Car-Wash, were more than enough to keep her living comfortably. There was never lack of money for good clothes, for good restaurants, for good vacations

Laura didn't have any close friends. Indeed, she knew many people, and went out with them to restaurants, to the movies, to the hotels and casinos at night. But true friends, no, not as far as Alana could tell. And Laura was reserved, even secretive about her outings. Not that she did anything immoral or illegal, as far as Alana could tell. She didn't like talking about her outings for the simple reason that she didn't like talking about her outings. And she didn't like having people over. The place to socialize was outside. Home was her secret cave, her special retreat. She read a lot, and when she read, she drank. She loved books. Books, along with wine, were her escape. Nonfiction books on topics ranging from health—yes, ironically, health—to science to history to philosophy to UFO's. Indeed, the house was filled with her books. It was her passion for books that infused Alana with the same passion. Alana never saw her with another man. But then, Alana never kept track of who her mother went out with or where she went out to. But it was reassuring, in a way, the fact that her mother had not married again, the fact that she didn't go out with men. Alana knew it was selfish of her to think like this, but she couldn't help it. Uncle Angelo didn't wait for her two-hour lesson at Ice World that fateful day. Instead he dropped her off and told her he would come back later to pick her up. He was back at one fifteen, before the lessons were over, and he watched her with pride as she turned and twirled on the rink. She made a little show for him, thrilled that he was watching. She knew she wasn't Olympic material, but she was pretty good. After her lessons he took her to a nice restaurant for lunch, and by the time they got back home it was already after three. Their house was over forty years old, but it had been repainted several years ago, and it looked very nice with its fresh coat of salmon-pink paint, very neat and well-kept. A large terrace-garage stood in front overlooking the street. The bedrooms, along with the garden and the pool, were in back. It was situated in a quiet, rather private residential street edged with high palm trees. Uncle Angelo parked on the street, right in front of the house. The first thing Alana noticed when she got out of the car was Valeria. Valeria was roller skating up and down the street, clad in a red T-shirt and shorts, her long blond hair gathered up into a ponytail. Valeria lived nearby—ten minutes away, walking—and many times they visited each other without notice, especially on weekends. When Valeria saw Alana she hastened down the street towards her, skating very fast to show off. “Alana!” Valeria said, waving with both hands. It was lethal hot, but the sky was gorgeous, clear blue and filled with clusters of marshmallow-white clouds. Alana smiled, instantly happy. Great, Valeria was here. No need having to call her up to invite her over. They would be in charge of the barbecue, then they would swim and talk in the pool. Maybe Valeria could even spend the night, and they would whisper stories to each other till the early hours of the morning. After all, tomorrow was Sunday, no school.

"What's up?” Alana said, her ice skates slung over her shoulder. They embraced and kissed. "Hello, Uncle Angelo,” Valeria said, somewhat shyly, rushing over to give him a kiss. Her face was all flushed from exertion and glistened with perspiration. Uncle Angelo stood with his hands on his hips, watching them with an affectionate smile on his face. He made some small talk, asking Valeria about her parents, about her grades at school. Then Alana cut in and told her about the barbecue, about staying over for the night. Naturally, Valeria instantly accepted, though she said they had to call her mother and ask permission. But this was almost never a problem. Valeria's parents didn't even know about Laura's drinking problem, another proof of how “normal” Laura seemed to the outside world. "Let's go inside, girls,” Uncle Angelo said, walking over to the front door. Alana and Valeria followed him inside, talking incessantly about what they would do today, about what they would grill on the barbecue—steaks, sausages, corn, the works. They would make piña coladas in the blender, no alcohol. The three of them went directly to the kitchen, where Uncle Angelo poured cold orange juice into three tall glasses. They drank eagerly. "If you're planning on barbecuing today, that barbecue grill has to be scrubbed clean,” Uncle Angelo said, putting down his empty glass. “It's disgustingly dirty." "That's no problem, right, Valeria? We'll do it,” Alana said. "Sure, no problem! But I prefer to watch you while you do it,” Valeria said, grinning. Alana threw her a malevolent look, though playfully. "Just leave everything to us, Uncle Angelo,” Valeria said. “When the food's ready, we'll let you know." Alana thought about going into her mother's bedroom to say hello. Instead she decided to first take a look at the grill. Damn, she hated scrubbing up grills, but with Valeria at her side it would be fun. They could rinse it with the water hose and splash each other. "Come, Valeria, let's take a look at that grill,” Alana said, heading out to the garden and pool area. "Can you lend me one of your bathing suits?” Valeria said, a bit timidly, following her. Outside, the glaring sun blinded them for a moment. "Yes, don't worry,” Alana said. "The black bikini?" "Whichever you want." Alana halted.

Something bright red at the bottom of the pool... Her mother in her bright red bathing suit at the bottom of the pool, face down, brown hair undulating... Her mother, dead, drowned. For a fraction of a second Alana stared, thunderstruck, chilled to the bone. Then reality hit her at full force. She screamed, calling out to her mother, calling out to her uncle, and then she dove into the water. Frantically Alana grabbed her mother by the waist and pulled her up. By the time Alana broke the surface she realized her uncle had also jumped into the water and was helping her to hoist Laura over the edge of the pool. Valeria was sobbing, her face red with tears, her hands crossed in front of her mouth as if in prayer. Her big brown eyes were widened with shock and disbelief. Laura's inert body rolled over the concrete floor to stare face up at the sky. She was shockingly pale and cold, and her eyes were open and fixed. Uncle Angelo checked her pulse ... nothing ... nothing.... Yet still he refused to give up and he tried to resuscitate her by using mouth to mouth. Breathe. Please, dear God in heaven, breathe.... But it was no use, and Alana knew it, and Uncle Angelo knew it, and Valeria knew it. Laura was dead. Had been dead for some time. This isn't happening, this can't be happening, Dear God, this can't be happening! A giddy feeling gripped Alana, a feeling of unreality. She clung to her mother and shut her eyes tightly, engulfing herself in her own pain, in her own agony, hardly aware of her uncle's sobs, of Valeria's husky voice, distorted with grief, “Alana. My God, Alana ... !" The ambulance, which Uncle Angelo had instructed Valeria to call before he jumped into the pool, arrived fifteen minutes later. The police, too, were also notified. Beside a lounge chair by the pool, they found an empty bottle of white wine along with some magazines, a suntan lotion, and a little pill box half-filled with sleeping pills. The whole thing pointed to an accident. Laura had mixed the wine with the pills, then she had gone into the water and somehow drifted off into unconsciousness. Either that, or it was suicide, though this was highly improbable, considering all the circumstances. Of course, they would have to wait until after the autopsy before they would know exactly how many sedatives Laura had consumed. Once the autopsy was done, everything was officially declared an accident. There was a slight level of sedatives in Laura's blood along with a higher level of alcohol from the wine consumed. Only one thing didn't fit: Alana knew that Laura never took sleeping pills when swimming in the pool. Indeed, Laura knew how dangerous this might be. Alana and

Uncle Angelo had never seen her doing this, mixing alcohol with sleeping pills while at the pool. It was true, though, that on some occasions they had seen her mixing alcohol with her migraine medicine. Laura had this incredible notion that by doing this she always got rid of her headaches. And then it was speculated that Laura, already muddled by the wine, had made a mistake and taken the sleeping pills believing them to be migraine pills, thus explaining the minute amount of sedatives in her system. The pill boxes were almost exactly alike, as were the pills. Someone already muddled by wine may not have noticed the difference. Nothing to do ... An accident... A month after the accident was Alana's thirteenth birthday and Uncle Angelo took her on a two-week tour around Europe, and in Paris, still numb by the pain and grieving for her mother, Alana saw fangs growing out of Mona Lisa's face.

CHAPTER 11

"Alana?" She looked up at Sadash, snapping back to the present like a spaceship crashing back to earth. Her temples still throbbed from concentration. "Are you all right?” he asked. She rose from the sofa, badly shaken, but doing her best to conceal it. “Just hungry,” she muttered, shrugging. He regarded her for a moment, his brows furrowed. "I'm just hungry, really. I hate being hungry like this. It turns me into someone I don't recognize." He seemed to relax. “Let's go then, my angel. No need to prolong your suffering." After feeding on a couple of drug dealers near the docks of Old San Juan, Sadash took her to La Cueva. They sat at a corner table far off from the dance floor. Their complexions were still somewhat flushed from the heat of the recent kill. Sadash ordered a Coca-Cola—his perpetual habit—and Alana a Strawberry Daiquiri. Drinks she would have never ordered as a mortal she ordered now. She usually enjoyed playing with the straw and pretending to drink. Tonight, though, she didn't feel like playing nor pretending. "Sadash,” she began. “We have to talk." But at that moment the waiter came with their drinks. "Why don't you take a sip?” Sadash said after the waiter had gone. The other night in their study, in spite of Sadash's warning, she had drank a few sips of wine to see what would happen. After a few minutes she had bent over with agony—a splitting migraine, terrible chest and stomach spasms, blood vomit. The symptoms had gradually disappeared after the vomiting, but it had been a lesson she would never forget. Alana stirred uncomfortably in her seat. Was he trying to avoid the conversation? Nevertheless, she grimaced, humoring him. “It'd sure make a hell of a spectacle, in front of all this people." He shook his head. “Modern humans are so blind, so skeptical, they would think it a trick."

Alana quietly agreed, looking around for a moment. This was her first appearance at the club as a real vampire. It felt so odd, meeting the young woman who had replaced her, saying hello to Victor and actually placing a kiss on his cheek and giving him a hug. Victor had been surprised at her sudden leaving. In fact, he had been worried. But Alana had only laughed and reassured him. Everything was fine. Just fine. The job of vampire hostess had not really been for her. She couldn't handle the night hours; she would go for her master's degree. Victor hadn't even given her a strange look. To him she was as human as she had ever been. How easy to fool them! And even if they gave her strange looks—some people were somehow more psychically receptive than others—all it took was one piercing look and one magnetic smile to convince them that there was nothing what-so-ever unusual about her. She could have done this with Valeria, for example. She could have put Valeria under her spell. Her sweet Valeria was too perceptive for her own good. Was, in fact, a little psychic, as Valeria had always claimed and as she herself had understood the night of their last argument, when she had pulled Valeria into her arms and gave her the mafia kiss. But for some reason she hadn't wanted to put Valeria under her spell. And she reluctantly knew why. With perverse longing she wanted Valeria to see through the facade and recognize the real horror. "What are you brooding about?” Sadash said. "Nothing,” she finally said. “You sound so sad. You miss scanning my thoughts, don't you?" His answer was an indecipherable little smile. "Sadash..." "Yes?" "Tell me the truth, Sadash. Is it true—what the gypsy woman said? Was my mother killed? I've been so overwhelmed by my new identity I haven't had time to deeply ponder about it. But it's been on my mind all along. I want to know what happened. Do you know what really happened that day? You know everything about me, about my family." "What makes you suspect that what the gypsy woman said is true? All of a sudden, I mean. She told you this years ago, yet you never took it seriously before." "That's true ... I don't know. I wouldn't know how to answer you. She sounded so honest, so earnest about it, and all the other things she told me were true. That's the awful thing about it, that all the other things she told me were true. Maybe it has to do with my new identity, with my new vision. Maybe it's made me more receptive, more cunning. I don't know, it's just a strong feeling I have, call it vampiric ESP." He regarded her for a moment, a bit hesitant, his fingers slowly sliding up and down his glass of Coke. "No one killed your mother,” he finally said. “Not ... exactly."

"What do you mean ... not exactly? Sadash, please don't lie to me. You promised me we would talk about this." "Why would I lie to you?" "I don't know." "I'm not going to lie to you. I only want to be exact. Killing. What does the word mean? Is killing necessarily murdering? The word killing merely states the fact. The word murdering shows motive and premeditation. To murder is to kill, but to kill is not necessarily to murder. Did the gypsy use the word kill or murder?" "No, she never used the word murder. She said someone killed my mother,” Alana said after a thoughtful pause. "If she had said murdered it would have been a lot more specific. Killing is too general a word. And too subjective. And then there's the question of having to take it literally. Maybe someone killed your mother, but not literally." "What are you talking about? What does it matter? I don't care if it was literally or not. I only want to know if it's true. Just answer my question. Do you know what really happened?" After a moment, he said, “Yes." She stiffened. “Okay ... so you know what really happened. Now, was my mother killed? What the gypsy woman said, is it true?" For a moment he was oddly silent. His deep-set eyes darted down to his Coke, then back to her. But his features were not solemn. He seemed much too relaxed, and something quite perverse and devilish hovered over his lips. What in hell was he thinking of? She would have given anything to scan his thoughts, to read what lay behind those beautiful eyes. The sheer perfection of him maddened her, made her want to smack him. "Sadash..." "Yes ... it's true. If the word killing merely states the fact, then I guess it's true." "Then someone was involved?” she said, dismayed. “My God, w ho?" "Remember that it could have been an accident. Remember that the gypsy may not have meant it literally." "Why are you trying to confuse me? You know what happened, you just told me so. You know if it was an accident or not. You know if it was meant literally or not." "Yes ... But I won't tell you. And I won't tell you who the person involved was, either." She stared at him, momentarily stunned. “Why not?" "Let me ask you something. What do you expect to gain by learning about all this? It belongs to the past. It can't affect you one way or the other now." "I can't believe I'm hearing this. What kind of question is that? I expect to gain the knowledge. She was my mother. I want to know what happened to her. I have

the right to know." He was silent again. "I don't understand you,” she said. “Why don't you want to tell me? Last night you promised me we would talk about it." "I promised you we would talk about it. I never promised I would unravel the mystery." She gave him a hurtful look. “So that's what it is for you—a mystery?" "Well, in a way it is a mystery. Not for me. For you." "I can't understand you. I can't understand why you don't want to tell me. Unless..." "Unless I had something to do with it?” he drawled. She froze. “Did you?" "Let's pretend for a second I had something to do with it. What would you do?" "My God.... Sometimes I hate you." "Love and hate are practically the same thing." Narrowing her eyes, she tried to pierce the thick fortress which guarded his thoughts, to the point where she began to feel a throbbing pain in her temples. "Don't try that,” he said, evidently guessing what she was doing. “It's useless. You'll only get weak ... and hungry." "Thanks for the advice." He sighed. “I didn't kill Laura. How could I, in broad daylight?” he said. Had there been a wounded, reproachful spark in his voice or had she imagined it? "I don't know,” she said, somewhat guiltily. “I'm sorry, but what do you expect me to think? Your attitude baffles me.” Then she added, “You once told me you would never hurt the people I love. I believed you then. And I believe you now." "Don't involve me in this,” he said, almost pleadingly, suddenly reaching for her hand from across the table. His forefinger stroke her pulse, sending pleasant chills up her arm. “Unravel the mystery if you wish, but don't involve me in it. Use your new vision, use the powers I gave you. With a little luck, it shouldn't take you more than a few days to find out the truth." "You want me to play detective to the murder of my own mother?” she said, appalled, jerking back her hand. "Killing isn't necessarily murder. Remember." "Thanks for the clue. So it wasn't a murder, I already can tell that from your hints. At least tell me if it was a literal kill." "What do you think?" "I think it was a literal kill."

"It was. I'll tell you that much. It was." "Was it an accident?" "Maybe." "You're not going to tell me." "Maybe it was an accident, and maybe it was not. That's why I told you last night it isn't so simple. Deep human emotions are involved. I myself can't be sure a hundred percent. I'm assuming I know the whole truth, but I may be wrong. My telepathic powers aren't perfect, not when deeply hidden human emotions are concerned." "But you know who killed my mother." "I already told you I know. But don't ask me again who this person is. I won't tell you anything about this person. Use the powers I gave you,” he sternly said. But all of a sudden, quite earnestly, he added, “Why don't you forget the whole thing? What could it matter now—what happened so many years ago? You'll only get hurt, you'll only suffer utter disappointment. We need a change. I think it's time we move from here. I was thinking Paris." "You baffle me, baffle me,” she said, softly shaking her head. “The more you talk, the more you baffle me. I won't go anywhere till I find out who killed my mother. I'm going to ask you one last time. Can you tell me what really happened that day? Can you tell me who killed my mother?" "No." "Why?" "You don't need my help. Use your own powers." "But I don't understand you! One moment you tell me to forget about it, the next you urge me to use my powers!” she said, suddenly angry. “Why don't you tell me? If you aren't guilty of anything, if you don't have anything to hide, then why don't you tell me?" He made an impatient gesture with his hands. “What do you want me to say? My advice to you is to forget it. But since you won't forget it, then at least handle it yourself and don't mix me up in it . I won't be the one to hurt you." "Hurt me? You're not telling me because you don't want to hurt me? Come on, don't give me that! I'm not that naive." "Think whatever you wish,” he said, shrugging lightly. Then he leaned forward over the table, his gaze piercing hers like an arrow, and said, “Remember that night at El Patio de Sam, when you told me you never had really known your mother? Well, you were right. You were more than right. There are many things you don't know about your mother. And I'm partly if not totally responsible for it. After I drank from you and we established a psychic connection, you changed. You became distant with those around you and more engulfed in yourself. God, there were times when you were hardly aware of what was going on around you. Which

was good, because I didn't want you to suffer more than you needed to." "What are you saying? I knew all about my mother's drinking, about her taste for sleeping pills. I knew all about that,” she said. She suddenly realized Sadash was looking at something past her, over her shoulder. She glanced behind her and saw Valeria and Humberto walking into the club and following the waiter to one of the tables on the opposite side of the room. Her pulse raced. She watched them. Valeria and Humberto sat down at the table. Valeria asked for red wine, and Humberto ordered an expensive bottle of French Bordeaux. Her beautiful Humberto, always so generous. Alana could hear their voices, their laughs with almost painful resonance. Valeria was clad in a red silk dress, very elegant and sexy, and her sleek blond hair fell carelessly on her shoulders, almost too carelessly, as if she had been necking with Humberto in the car before entering into the club, which she had, Alana now clearly perceived! Valeria was laughing softly, somewhat breathlessly, but Alana could sense—hell, she could almost smell Valeria's sadness. And then Valeria told Humberto, “I miss her." Alana looked back at Sadash. She realized all this time he had been watching her. "You want her ... don't you?” he said. His voice was like the silky voice of the Devil, but she caught a twinge of resentment in it. Alana shut her lips tightly, feeling guilty. "You're insatiable and greedy. Am I not enough for you, at least for now?” he said, angry yet darkly ecstatic. “I warned you before and I'm warning you now." "Don't worry. I don't intend to do anything I'll later regret. I mean it,” she honestly said. He gave her a look that told her he didn't exactly believe her. "I mean it!” she insisted. "I hope so." "I just want—I don't know. I don't know how to explain it. I just want to look at them,” she said, glancing at them, then back at Sadash. "I know,” he said, his tone softening a bit. “You love them deeply and you can't keep your eyes off them. It's perfectly natural. But torturous and dangerous. That's why the best thing you can do is keep away from them. I meant what I said about Paris." She tried her best to shut Valeria's voice out of her head. The way Valeria had said I miss her, with her soul filled with longing and grief. "The Louvre?” Alana said, referring to the famous museum. Actually, she was suddenly quite tempted to forget everything and escape to another continent. She had been to Paris once, with her uncle. After her mother's death. Her uncle had taken

her to the Louvre and showed her the Mona Lisa. She now recalled how, staring at the painting, she had seen, or imagined, fangs growing out of the Mona Lisa's mouth. "The Louvre, the Opera, Notre Dame, Eiffel Tower, the Seine, the art galleries. Everything. You and me. We could leave tonight. Flying. We could be there in less than an hour. I own a flat on Rue St. Antoine, close to Notre Dame." Alana laughed, but it was a mirthless laugh. “And you call me impulsive?" Sadash smiled. “What do you say?" "We'll go. After I find out the truth about my mother's death." His face changed. “Damn you. I don't know why, but I can smell trouble in the air." "I thought the only thing you could smell was blood,” she scoffed. “And as you told me once yourself: I'm already damned, thank you. Don't worry. As the cliché goes, I wouldn't do anything you wouldn't do." "That's exactly what I'm afraid of." "So.... Someone killed my mother, but whether it was an accident or not, we don't know, that is, if what you're telling me is true." He raised his right hand in oath. “I swear." "Was it a man or a woman? Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot, you won't tell me." "Cut the sarcasm and take another advice: talk to your uncle." Uncle Angelo. She thought about him for a minute, with her chin resting on her crossed hands. Yes, Uncle Angelo ... she would call him up, she would talk to him, she would.... Her thoughts halted. “Wait a minute, Sadash,” she said. “Are you implying he knows the truth?" "No, he doesn't. But he might give you some ideas." She gave a weary sigh. “You really are making this difficult for me. You haven't lied, have you? Everything you have told me is the truth?" "Do you really distrust me so much?” he asked, almost sadly. "Well, you can't blame me for it. You're so intriguing." For a long moment she remained silent, mentally debating, with her eyes fixed on the rich pink color of her drink. All the ice was slowly melting. She simply couldn't understand his attitude. Then a disturbing thought sprang into her head. She didn't know where it came from, this thought. It just popped out of nowhere, and somehow shook and convinced the hell of out her. She looked up at him, her eyes blazing like coals. "God, you are the Devil,” she slowly said. “You want me to find out the truth, don't you? Yes ... I can see it now. As much as a mother tiger wants its cub to hunt and kill its first prey. You want to see me in action. You love the little hunting games,

you told me that once yourself. And you love the moral question of the kill. You want me to go for the hunt and you wonder what I'll do when I find out the truth." He didn't answer. But his mouth slowly spread into a half smile. "Should I go on?” she said, still struck by her discovery. “You don't really want us to go to Paris. You're using Paris. You know me, and you know your insistence to leave will only make me want to stay more." "Why would I ever do that?” he calmly said. "You tell me! I thought I was getting to know you, but I don't know you at all." "Don't you think it'd be boring, if you knew everything about me?" "Then you admit it? What I just said?" "I'm not admitting anything. I'm shocked by your accusations. Really, my angel. I'm not the Machiavellan monster you think I am. You wound me. You're cruel in your innocence, and you wound me." "Don't call me angel. You can call me fallen angel. Not angel.” She snorted disdainfully, anger and desolation churning inside of her. She loathed him. No, this wasn't true. She wanted to loathe him, but she couldn't. Why couldn't she? Because he was her Maker? Was this the love between Fledgling and Maker that Sadash had told her about, a love that nothing on earth could destroy, a love that was eternal, as eternal as their cursed lives? The idea was wondrous, and at the same time perfectly horrible. Yet it was true. She adored him like a God. Her God. Who in one instant of carnal passion had robbed her of her life, of her soul. And yet there he was, the picture of perfect innocence, sitting across from her in his black shirt with full wide sleeves like Zorro's and tight black Levis, looking at her with those amber eyes which irradiated wisdom, love and now even sadness. She wanted to bite him, hurt him, lose herself in the deadly strength of his embrace. He was stronger but she suddenly wanted to overpower him with her preternatural strength, pin him to the floor, and gorge on his neck against his will. And she thought: If the Devil exists, he must be as beautiful as you. "I don't believe you. Only God knows what you're plotting inside that head of yours. You're a monster—that's what you are. And you've turned me into a monster, and I'll never forgive you for it. You don't love me,” she hissed. She could have said anything right now. She wanted him out of her sight. If her words made sense or not it didn't matter. “You love your daughter, that's who you love. Not me. And I don't need your help. Forget I ever asked you. I don't need you. Okay? You might think I need you. But I don't need you. Believe me, I'd be a lot happier if you weren't around. Feel my hate.” Sharply, she looked away from him. She didn't want to see his reaction, for already she was hurting for him, already she wanted to pull him roughly into her arms and devour the hell out of him. Instead she tried to concentrate her attention on Valeria and Humberto. They were still talking about her. Drinking wine and talking about her.

She hasn't even called me. Not even one call. She will. You don't understand. No one understands. Only I understand. Please. She was possessed. Don't do this. Please. I know you don't believe me. But she was possessed. Dear God, is that why you put that crucifix around your neck? When Alana looked back toward Sadash, he was gone. She looked around her. Gone. She was startled, and suddenly overcome by a deep sorrowful feeling. What to make of Sadash's reaction? What to make of their whole conversation, for that matter? She was confused and miserable. Had she actually hurt his feelings, or was this simply a calculated move from his part? She didn't know what to think, she honestly didn't know. Once again her gaze turned to Valeria and Humberto. She looked at them for a long time, more transfixed by the expressive movement of their features than by what they were actually saying. In fact after a minute or two their words became meaningless. Then something happened. In the middle of her conversation with Humberto, Valeria suddenly turned her eyes straight toward Alana. Their eyes drilled each other from across the room. Of course, this is what Alana had wanted. Deeply satisfied by Valeria's expression of astonishment, Alana stood up and walked in the direction of their table. Valeria and Humberto stared at her, surprised. "Well, no hello for an old musketeer?” Alana said, standing in front of them. Humberto immediately stood up to give her a kiss and a hug, but Valeria remained on her chair. "Are you alone?” Humberto said, pulling away from her embrace. "I'm everything you want me to be,” Alana teased, her eyes on Valeria. "Then please come and sit with us for a while,” Humberto said. “We've been worried like hell about you." "Are you sure Valeria wants me to sit down?" Valeria was still silent, staring up at her with steady eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course she does,” Humberto said, pushing Alana down onto the chair and sitting next to her. “Your ... er ... boyfriend ... he's not here?" Alana could feel his hesitation, his apprehension and love. "No.” Alana said. “Disappointed?" "Actually, I am. I was hoping to meet him,” Humberto said. At last Valeria spoke. “Don't get your hopes too high. He doesn't want us to meet him,” she said. "Good ... I was starting to think someone cut off your tongue,” Alana said. “But to go back to your comment, what an extraordinary thing to say! Why wouldn't he want you to meet him?" "Well, where is he, then?” Valeria said. “Why has he taken you away?" "No one has taken me away,” Alana said. "Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Humberto said. “Let's keep the conversation calm and under control. Alana, we don't have to pretend with you. We have been very worried about you. We don't understand what has happened. You told Valeria you had decided to move in with that guy. But you never call us, you never gave us a number or an address where we could reach you, you never took any of your belongings with you. You have to admit your behavior has been very strange, if not to say totally selfish.” He pointed towards Valeria. “This girl here has hardly had a good night's sleep since you left. I don't know, Alana. I don't know what else to tell you. What's going on?" "I'm sorry,” Alana said, not knowing what else to say. Sadash had been right. It was better, it was a lot easier to keep away from them, from all the people she loved. "That's not enough, Alana. We want an explanation. We know you, and that's why we feel there's something you're not telling us,” he said. "You can see by yourselves there's nothing wrong with me,” Alana said. “Have I been hurt? Do I look sad, or scared? No, right? Then why don't you just take my word for it? Hell, I didn't come here to argue. I only wanted to talk to you, to ask how you were doing. But it seems I keep making the same mistake again and again. I shouldn't have come.” She was about to rise, but Valeria clutched her wrist and stopped her. "X-Net doesn't exist,” Valeria said. "What?" "X-Net. The company Sadash told you about. It doesn't exist." Alana jerked her hand free, and looked at Humberto. "It's true, Alana. We had it checked. There's no X-Net anywhere in the States. He lied to you,” Humberto said. For a moment Alana stared at them. She felt like bursting out laughing, but their expressions were so earnest, so concerned that it made her stop. God, how she

wanted to impale their necks and feed off them! The desire to feed off them right then and there was so keen she suddenly felt dizzy. "Have you ever stopped to think that maybe I was the one who created this lie?” Alana said. She had to get out of there. She was hungry. She had fed before coming here, but she was hungry again. "Why would you do that?” Humberto said. Alana laughed. “You tell me. You're the detectives." Humberto reached for Alana's hand. “Are you protecting him? Is he involved in something illegal? Please, Alana. You can tell us. You can trust us, you know that. The only thing we want is to understand. To know the truth. Then we won't interfere. We'll accept it, I promise you.” Before releasing her hand he gave it a loving little squeeze. His hand was hot, hot with his blood, a blood that was hot and young and strong and precious. But most important, a blood that was his and not anybody else's. Dangerous. Keep away from them. Alana looked at Valeria, at the golden crucifix around her neck. "I thought you didn't believe in Jesus,” Alana said. She caught a vision of the Pirate giving Valeria a small box wrapped in shiny red paper. Valeria shrugged, a bit embarrassed, clutching the crucifix with her fingers. “A gift. Miguel gave it to me,” she said. "You haven't answered me,” Humberto told Alana. But Alana was mesmerized by the crucifix, by the way it sparkled against Valeria's creamy neck under the reddish lights. Alana said, “It's true. I didn't want to tell you. I wanted to protect you. But it's true. He's a drug dealer. Powerful and dangerous. And that's why I don't want you to see him, meet him, have anything to do with him. And this is all I can tell you. Please don't ask me anything else. Because I can't say anymore. And I won't." Humberto looked at her as if he wasn't sure whether to believe her or not. Alana began to nod her head and drum her fingers to the beat of the music— Coolio's “Gansta's Paradise." "I don't believe a word of it,” Valeria said. "It explains many things, Valeria,” Humberto said. Then he added sarcastically, “It's a lot more probable than your possession theory." Alana smiled to herself. Possession theory. How ridiculous and cute. Though it was closer to the truth than anything else. The fact that Valeria, pragmatic, down-to-earth Valeria, could think up something like this only made Alana love her more, want her more. "Possession theory?” Alana said. "She thinks you might be involved in some sort of cult or something,” Humberto

said, slightly embarrassed. “An evil cult. And that your boyfriend is either the leader or a member of the cult." "I don't believe that,” Valeria protested. “I just ... it just crossed my mind, that's all." I'm hungry, I'm hungry, I'm hungry. I have to get out of here. "Possessed? Me?” Alana said. “What do you mean, Valeria? Like when I was in secondary school and pretended to be possessed to frighten the other girls? But if I were truly possessed I couldn't do this, could I?” And in a suddenly impulsive gesture she reached for Valeria's gold chain and opened its lock. Then she put it around her own neck. Valeria didn't object, as if entranced by what Alana would do next. Alana lifted the crucifix to her lips and kissed it, then let it fall back against her neck. She made the Sign of the Cross. “I want it,” she honestly said. “I want to keep it. Can you give it to me?" "Yes...” Valeria said after a moment. Humberto watched Alana, silent. But Alana could feel their bafflement. Now, no matter what she told them, they would never believe her. She, who had always been scornful of religion and hated religious symbols, had actually put a crucifix around her neck and kissed it. But it wasn't the action in itself, it was the sincerity behind it what had baffled them. Indeed, Alana herself was baffled, and suddenly embarrassed. But this wasn't the perfect moment to brood about the contradictory mess of her beliefs. She rose to leave, her hand on the crucifix. "I have to go,” Alana said. "Alana, wait.” Humberto said, also rising. He glanced at Valeria, then back at Alana, doubtful. “How ... when will we see you again?" "I don't know." "Please.... My father is giving a party on Friday night. At home. It'd make me very happy to see you there. He—Sadash—can come, if you wish.” And before Alana could stop him, he kissed her lips softly, tenderly, a brother's kiss. A brother's kiss that struck her numb with desire. She pushed him rudely away. “Yes, maybe,” she muttered. She looked down at Valeria, who remained seated as lovely and as cruel as an Egyptian statue, and tried to scan her thoughts. What Alana saw in Valeria's mind left her dumbfounded. Impossible! But already her fangs were elongating and she knew she wouldn't be able to repress them. She had to get out of here! She turned to go, almost running past the waiters and tables, still hearing their voices behind her:

...Did you notice how cold she was? When I touched her hand, I didn't think anything about it, but when I kissed her ... her lips were freezing. But that doesn't mean anything. The hell it doesn't! What about her face? Didn't you notice her face — the color? It looked like wax, it was shimmering. I didn't notice that. Alana continued hurriedly past the bar and out of the club, her head down, her mouth tightly closed, her long hair like a red veil over her cheek so no one would see her. And in her mind only one image blazed like a pyre against darkness: her mother Laura, writhing in bed under the dark body of a man Alana had instantly recognized.

CHAPTER 12

Sadash wasn't in the study when Alana came back to the house. In fact, he was nowhere in the house. In total darkness she sank into the sofa, leaned forward, and buried her face in her hands. The blood of the junkie she had just killed still tingled in her throat, making her warm all over. She had imagined the junkie to be Valeria and Humberto. Two of them in one body. This was hopeless. She was a killer, and with every passing day she was becoming better and better at being a killer. Valeria... Had it been true, what she had seen in Valeria's mind? Her mother and that man? She would have never, never suspected it. Not in a hundred years. And how did Valeria know? If the image was embedded in Valeria's mind it meant she had actually seen them. Seen them but never told Alana a word. But when? How? How to act now? What to do? And Sadash ... In spite of what had happened, she wished he were here now. Maybe she had been too harsh, maybe she had truly hurt his feelings. Damn it, it was all a little hunting game for him—this is what had angered her. But did it matter so much, really, if it was all a game for him? That's just the way he was, that was his nature. Yes, yes, she had overreacted, childishly, foolishly. On the other hand, maybe she had been right, and she was only trying to excuse him, maybe her love for him blinded her. But what if ... what if a deeper, darker motive was the root of his intriguing behavior? She sighed. She really didn't know what to think. But she knew what she felt. Her heart ached for him, her soul—if she had any—ached for him, and she wished he were here now. Where are you, you devil with no last name? Come here ... I love you. Now there was one more reason to see Valeria again. To confront her. She leaned back against the sofa, trying to recall all those times when she had actually talked with her mother, which were few. Of course, what caused her great pain was not the fact that her mother had had a lover, but that she hadn't been close enough to her to ever know. How long had it been going on? Days? Months? Years?

Had there been more than one lover in her life? Dear God, she was in total ignorance! Sadash had been right. As a child, or as a teenager, actually, she had been hardly aware of the world around her. She had lived in a world of spells, in a world of fiction. The human beings, the real world had been unreal. Her only reality had been the unattainable memory of an obsession—Sadash. She could blame him for it. For everything. But what would she gain by it? She might as well blame life, or destiny. She might as well blame Whoever was up there in that idealized cave they call Heaven. He had seduced her. The devil with no last name. Seduced her. She sighed. She would find out the truth, all the truth about her mother. If she gained or lost anything in the process, it didn't matter. Resolutely, she stood up and walked over to the phone. She picked up the receiver and dialed. Then she waited for the transatlantic connection, her heart pounding hard inside her chest. **** "Why do you want to know ?” Uncle Angelo asked. They had been talking for five minutes now. Uncle Angelo had been surprised and delighted by her call, and Alana had felt a sharp pang of melancholy, happy yet saddened by the warm and lively timbre of his voice. But all the small talk had finished, and Alana had begun the real questions. "Is it that impossible, asking you if my mother had a lover?" "No, it's not that. It's just ... why now? After all these years? You never asked me this before." "I don't know, I'm just asking you now. No specific reason. It's just I've been thinking a lot about her lately ... about how little I really knew her. I never came to know her, to really talk to her, you know what I mean? It's just dawned on me how much of a stranger she was to me ... and I to her." Uncle Angelo gave a sigh. “No, it wasn't you, don't say that. Laura was a stranger to everybody, even to me. She never really confided in me. I never knew for sure what was inside her mind. Laura suffered a lot because of your father's illness. Those last months.... Jesus, those last months of his life were horrible. Not even the strongest drugs could numb his pain. She never overcame his death, sweetheart, that's what happened. She wasn't strong enough to overcome it, she closed herself into her own cocoon, shutting her doors to the world." "But maybe if I would have been closer to her..." "Stop this, now. Where's all this coming from? Who have you been talking to? You were just a kid, what could you have done?" "I don't know, maybe you're right. But sometimes, when I think about it, I can't help feeling that if I had been closer to her, more affectionate, more loving, more of a

daughter, that maybe ... that maybe..." "That maybe nothing. I don't want you thinking like this, or talking like this, ever. Do you hear me?" She didn't answer him, deeply comforted by the strength and warmth of his voice. It was easier, in a way, closing her eyes, obeying. "Now, about what you asked. I never told you before because what would have been the purpose? And also because you never asked me. But since you're asking me now, I'll tell you what I know. There was a man in your mother's life, a man she came to love, but who he was, that I never knew. She never mentioned his name. In a very vague way, she sometimes talked about him. Your mother was very reserved, very private, she kept things to herself. And I guess she didn't want us to know what was going on. Not me, actually, but specifically you. She didn't want you to know, she didn't want you to think she was doing something immoral. This was very important to her." "Was he married?" "One time I asked her, and she denied it. I believed her. I think she would have told me if he was married. She did mention once that he was rich, and a playboy." "Wait a minute, Uncle Angelo, how do you know he was the only man she was seeing? How do you know there wasn't more than one man?" "More than one man?” He paused, obviously taken aback. “No, I don't think so. No, no, I would have known that, I think. She always referred to the same man, she was clear with me about that. Anyway, you're mother was not that kind of a woman. I think you must know that." "Yes, I know that, you're right,” she mumbled, a bit ashamed. “Go on. What would she say to you?" "Oh, I don't know. Little things. ‘Last night we went to a restaurant together,’ or ‘Last night we danced.’ Comments like these. Very vague and general. On a few occasions I caught her talking with him on the phone. Remember when we went to Istanbul? That's the first time I caught her talking with him on the phone." "As far back as that?" "Oh, yes. She must have been seeing this man during the last three years of her life, at least. She was in love with him, and during her last year she suffered a lot because of him." "Suffered because of him?” Alana asked, stunned. “My God, how come I never knew this? Why didn't you ever tell me?" "Tell you? What for? What could you have done? And it's not as if she cried day and night for him, no, it wasn't like that, nothing that obvious. But she did begin to drink a lot more during that last year. And it was during that time that she also began to take more and more sleeping pills. And do you want me to tell you something? I think she was getting her sleeping pills from him. Laura always denied this, and I

might be entirely wrong, but I always had this hunch, you know, that her secret lover was the one who was always providing her with pills. First of all, she started taking them three or four years before the accident, around the same time that she became involved with him. And do you remember where she kept the pills? In those little pill boxes, never in the containers which they give you at the pharmacy, with the labels on them. I often thought the reason for this was because she was not getting them from prescriptions, but from him." "Hmm ... She always told me she hated the pharmacy containers, that they reminded her of all the medicines she used to give my father, before he died. She said the little pill boxes were a lot nicer looking, that they didn't give her the creeps." "True,” Uncle Angelo admitted. “She hated the sight of medications. She was neurotic about them, she didn't want them around her. They were her phobia. As I said, I may be entirely wrong. Jesus, it makes me feel so ashamed, but I never knew who her doctors were, even if she had any, for that matter. You know how she hated them, she always handled her own health problems herself with over-the-counter medications. One more reason why I found the origin of those sleeping pills suspicious." "And she never brought this man home? You never saw him?" "Never. I never knew who the man was. He wanted to stop seeing Laura, he wanted to break up their relationship. Once she said, ‘He doesn't want to see me anymore, he's tired of me, he hates me.’ She became sickened, depressed, even desperate. I could see it, I could sense it. But she didn't want to talk, and I didn't pressure her. I was saddened for her, of course, and I let her know she could count on me for anything. She knew it. But she didn't want to talk. Her confidant was the wine. You already know that. What could I have done? It was her life." For a moment neither of them spoke. Alana closed her eyes, as if by doing so she could feel her mother's frustration and disappointment. More than ever she wished she could have been there for her, really there for her. Loving her, holding her, listening her, understanding her. "Do you know what I thought after she died?” Uncle Angelo said. “I thought that the man would show up at the funeral and from the expression of his face I would be able to tell who he was." "And?” Alana said. "Nothing. Don't you remember that day? There were too many people, too many relatives, old friends of your father, friends of your mother, friends of mine, some of your teachers. I never thought there would be so many people. Impossible to know. Impossible to study all their faces and know. As if it mattered, anyway. She was gone. What did it matter? I can tell you one thing, though. There were no strangers that day, so either the man never showed up, or he was there and he was someone we already knew." Alana nodded to herself. And she remembered the man's face, the deeply suntanned face, for a short intense moment contorted with grief...

"Alana, did you know Laura kept a diary during the last year of her life? I have this diary. I have read it." A tense silence followed, but before Alana could say a word, Uncle Angelo said, “Please don't be angry with me, for not having told you before. I found out about this diary less than a year ago, right before we sold the house and I moved to Paris. You were in Boston, remember? I was cleaning up the place and packing everything into boxes, and that's when I found it, hidden between some books in one of the shelves inside her closet. I almost threw it away, I didn't know it was a diary. "It was not a real diary, you understand. It was just a little notebook. But when I skimmed through it I realized there were dated entries for each page. Most of the entries were little essays about life, about death, quite philosophical, actually. "But I didn't stop to read it then. I put it together with my things and it was much later, here in Paris, that I actually sat down and read it. I was going to send it to you right away, I swear to you I was. But after I finished reading it I changed my mind. Most of the things were too pessimistic and depressing and concerned your father's painful illness. She wrote about death. She wrote about no God, no Heaven, no Hell, no afterlife. She believed in only darkness and nothingness. Dark writings, I tell you. I knew I would sooner or later tell you about this. I was just waiting for the right opportunity. I didn't want to bring you bad memories, I didn't want to bring you pain. But she didn't write a lot, she didn't write everyday. And always little paragraphs, short and to the point. Nothing long or wordy or fancy." "Did she write about the man?" "Yes, she talked about him, but again, she never mentioned his name or what he did. Mostly she wrote about her feelings for him. That's how I know she cared for him, that's how I know she suffered. Some of the passages are pretty desperate. It seems she became somewhat obsessed with him, insistently calling him up, following him around, embarrassing him. Actually, I was rather shocked, reading this." "She didn't write about anybody else in that diary?" "No." "Not even about any of her girlfriends? Or about any other person?" "No. But I don't find this odd. It's not that kind of a diary. It's mainly her thoughts about life and death. You would have to read it to know what I mean." "Uncle Angelo, maybe you're going to find my next question strange, but I want you to think about it very carefully before you answer me. Did she mention, anywhere in her diary, anybody who might have disliked her, anybody who might have wanted to ... hurt her?" "No...” he said after a pause, obviously perplexed. "Are you sure?" "Yes. You're putting crazy ideas into my head. Why do you ask me this?" "One last thing, Uncle Angelo,” she said, avoiding his question. “Is there any

entry on the day of the accident, or on the day before that?" "As a matter of fact, there is." "There is? What did she write?" "On the day before the accident. It's her last entry. Among other things, she mentioned she was going to meet him the next day. Jesus, I get goose bumps, talking about this.” Then he added, abruptly changing the subject without meaning to, “Your phone bill's going to be high. Why don't you hang up? I'll call you right back." "No, no, don't worry about that. Go on, tell me." "There's nothing else to tell, really. She was going to meet him the next day. That's all." Alana stiffened, somewhat breathless. “Did she mention when or where she was going to meet him?” she asked. "No..." "Is it possible he was going to come and see her ... at our home ... while you and I were out at the skating rink?" Silence. "I don't think so...” he finally said, sounding deeply puzzled by the eagerness in her voice. "Uncle Angelo, please, I want you to get that diary. Now. I want you to read me that last entry." "Alana, you're scaring the hell out of me. Is there anything you know that I don't? Why are you asking me all these things? What are you implying ?" "Uncle Angelo, please! I need to know. Just get that diary. I'll tell you all about it later ... maybe." "Not maybe. You will tell me. I'm going to get the diary, hold on a minute. You're going to have one hell of a phone bill." "Oh, money's not what I have to worry about anymore."

CHAPTER 13

A few minutes before dawn Alana leaped into the empty coffin. She whimpered softly, wondering where Sadash had sought refuge from the sun this morning. Definitely not under the ground—he detested creepy crawlers. In a hotel room? But perhaps he had other hiding places in the city which she didn't know about. There were so many things about him she felt she still didn't know. A few blood tears trickled down the outer corners of her eyes and she wiped them off with her fingers and licked her fingers clean, just as Sadash had done to her that first night when she had drained to death her first victim. She licked her lips, feeling angry and miserable and lonely. The idea that her mother's lover—Antonio Curet, Humberto's father—had somehow been involved in her death chilled her heart. Had Antonio been at their house and seen Laura on that dreadful day, while she and her uncle had been away to the skating rink? She considered the possible scenario. Antonio, tired and bored of their affair. Laura, refusing to finish the relationship, insisting, pleading, then making threats. Antonio, fed up, wanting to get rid of her... But commit murder because of this? He wasn't even married; it's not as if he'd had something to lose. No, it didn't make sense. But what if Antonio had accidentally killed her? Alana was rambling on. She didn't even know for sure if he had, in fact, gone to see her that day. For all she knew her mother could have been supposed to meet him in a club later that night, after the barbecue. She needed to talk to Valeria. Valeria had been roller skating in front of Alana's house that day. Was it possible that she had seen him entering her house? But then, surely Valeria would have said something. And yet, hadn't Valeria stayed silent after seeing Laura and him in bed? Yes, she had to talk to Valeria. And, of course, she had to confront Antonio himself. Only by doing this would she learn the truth. Then she would permanently cut the thread with all these mortals and get away from this island. Before the slumbering darkness engulfed her, she had one last thought.

If it's true Antonio killed my mother, what am I going to do about it? **** Well, she wasn't going to look for Sadash anymore. She had been roaming the city in her Firebird for hours. Old San Juan, the hotels, the casinos. Why did she persist? It took a mule to continue so. And a stupid one, at that. For all she knew he might very well be on the opposite side of the globe, or on the moon. Whatever happens, I'm on my own now. Restless and filled with anticipation, she paced back and forth in front of her old apartment building. It was after ten o'clock and she was beginning to feel hungry again. She had drank a little from a drunk who had fallen asleep on the street, then, quite boldly, she had drank a little more from a beautiful teenaged boy who had been strolling on the beach at one of the hotels. After last night, when she had killed the junkie, she had not wanted to kill again. But when she didn't kill them, when she didn't drink them whole, her thirst only came back stronger. Insatiable hunger—the curse of the newborn. For a moment she remembered the junkie who had tried to mug her. Nobody talked about it anymore. The murder had remained unsolved, just as countless others in the city. Impulsively, she clutched at the crucifix on her throat. Tilting back her head, she looked upwards to the seventeenth floor. Valeria ... Where are you? The apartment was dark, empty. Valeria hadn't arrived yet. After a few more minutes pacing back and forth Alana decided to go upstairs and wait for her inside the apartment. She hastened through the lobby and into the elevator, and into her old apartment, opening and closing locks with her telekinetic power, which never stopped amazing her. Once inside, she walked around it for a while, going from room to room looking at every wallpaper, at every piece of furniture as if for the first time. Oddly, she didn't miss her things. What she felt was more like a rush of incipient melancholy. Her room had been perfectly cleaned and organized ... by Valeria. She could sense it. She could smell Valeria's womanly softness, her vulnerability, her warm presence in the room. Closing her yes, she inhaled deeply. Wonderful smell. She put her favorite classical music cassette in the stereo and sat down in the armchair by her bed, propping her feet up on the mattress. A distinct sensation of deja vu... Yes, she remembered. She had been sitting just like this and listening to the same music when Sadash had appeared to her that fatal night. The Mickey Mouse clock on the night table read ten forty-five. Where the hell was Valeria? And she was hungrier now, more restless. Alana tried to catch a vision of Valeria somewhere. No luck. Sadash could have done it. But she knew she needed to be patient. It wasn't possessing the powers, but controlling and learning how to use them what mattered.

On the other hand, she did catch a vision of someone else approaching the apartment. A mortal man. Walking down the carpeted corridor, a set of keys in hand, approaching the door. Miguel, the Pirate. What was he doing here? Had Valeria given him a copy of the apartment keys, told him to meet her here tonight? "Valeria...” Miguel called, coming in and closing the door behind him. Hearing the stereo, he evidently believed Valeria was in the apartment. All the lights were off, but Valeria often enjoyed playing hide and seek in the dark. Miguel switched on the living room lamp. Alana rose and slipped quietly into the closet of her bedroom, slowly closing its sliding door. Even though he was in the living room, she could guess and almost visualize all of his movements. "Valeria...?” he said, his voice playfully mysterious. “Where ... are ... you?” He sang this last question, like the bad wolf looking for Little Red Riding Hood. Alana stood motionless, unexpectedly aroused. Already she could feel the little pointed edges of her fangs against her lower lip. "You're being a very, very, naughty girl, Valeria,” Miguel went on, slowly walking into Valeria's room, checking inside the closet, under the bed. “Once I catch you ... there'll be no mercy..." Alana could feel his excitement. The man was all adrenaline. And he wasn't one bit afraid to be walking around in the dark. The only illumination came from the living room lamp he had switched on, which was quite dim. But then, why should he be afraid? The only surprise he expected was Valeria, hiding somewhere in her lingerie. He was used to this game, he loved it. Valeria had told Alana about it. Hide and seek. Oh, her lascivious Valeria. The irony of it. Miguel went stealthily into the bathroom, peered behind the shower curtain. He was grinning. His brain was pumping adrenaline by the liter and he was grinning. Then he walked into Alana's bedroom. It didn't occur to him that Valeria wasn't in the house, that maybe Valeria had forgotten the stereo on since morning. No, he was so overwhelmed by his emotions that the possibility didn't even cross his mind. Miguel went on his knees and glanced under the bed. Then he looked to the closet and laughed. “You little fox...” he said under his breath, standing up and walking slowly toward the closet. “Where ... are ... you ... my ... little ... fox...? Could ... you ... be ... maybe ... here...?” he drawled his question, his voice like a lullaby. Then, abruptly, he opened the closet door. Seeing Alana, he jumped back in surprise, letting out a rasping moan from deep down his throat. Alana clearly read his thoughts. For a split second the possibility that this was really Valeria, that Valeria was wearing a tousled red wig and white plastic fangs,

crossed his mind. But then he realized this wasn't Valeria playing games. This was Alana. Alana with fangs. He stared at her, dumbstruck. Not really terror, but incredulous shock. Then his eyes dropped to the golden crucifix on her neck, immediately recognizing it. With preternatural swiftness she stood in front of him and held his face between her hands. She wanted to be swift. She didn't want to torture him. She didn't want to wait one more second so he could think that this was maybe a big joke planned by Valeria, and that what Alana had in her mouth were nothing but plastic fangs. Or to recognize the truth, to breath the word Vampire. No, she didn't want to be that cruel. The flesh of his neck was all tense and tight. The artery throbbed. She slid her fangs into it, and drank. Even if she hadn't planned it, she would have drank him dead. Because she was hungry and because he was there and because this wasn't just another junkie or bum or prostitute in the street. This was Miguel, the Pirate, with dreams and desires and plans for his life. And because he was passionate and beautiful and Valeria loved him. And because Alana wondered, had wondered from the very beginning, what a mortal she knew and cared for would taste like. But she had planned it. She had decided to kill him the moment he had reminded her of the big, bad wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. **** Even before Valeria turned the key and opened the door of her apartment, she had a creepy feeling in her gut. As if something bad had happened. "Miguel?” she said, frowning, setting the food bags on top of the kitchen counter. She had spent the last hour in a supermarket that closed at midnight. She'd had to, her refrigerator was almost completely empty and she'd had an uncontrollable craving for pistachio ice cream. The pistachio ice cream they sold there was delicious. But now, oddly, her craving had totally vanished. She walked into the living room and saw his briefcase and jacket laid out on top of the glass coffee table. "Miguel...” she called again, peering into the darkness of the corridor, but her voice was lower this time. She hoped he wasn't playing hide and seek. She definitely wasn't in the mood. She had asked him to come here because she felt lonely, and scared, and she wanted to talk and needed someone who would listen. She didn't want to make love tonight. She just wanted to be held like a child and fall asleep. And the music ... one of Alana's favorites. Vivaldi's “Summer.” Strange. Though she did remember Miguel had, on some occasions, walked into Alana's room and put on her classical music cassette. Once he had told her the music got him in the mood. The music finished. That was the last melody in the cassette. The cassette player clicked off, and all of a sudden an uneasy silence saturated the apartment. Valeria swallowed dryness. “Miguel, please. I'm not in the mood for games. Not

tonight,” she said, angry now. Fear made her angry. And she was suddenly afraid. Afraid of ... what? She wasn't sure. Silence. She cursed under her breath, switching on the corridor light. To the left was her bedroom. Resolutely, she walked up to it and turned on the lights. It was empty. From her bedroom doorway, her eyes darted back down the corridor. To the right was the bathroom, and farther down, at the end of the corridor, was Alana's bedroom. Its door was half open. Slowly she continued down the corridor. Then she halted. Silence, except for a strange low sound. A continuous sound. Coming from Alana's bedroom. "Alana...” Valeria whispered, staring at the half open door. But how could it be Alana? Miguel's things were in the living room. Goddamn it, if this was Miguel's idea of a joke, it was sure going to be his last. That sound again.... Slurping? For a split second she froze, but she refused to surrender to her fear. She went a few steps forward, past the bathroom, and stopped right in front of Alana's bedroom. Holding her breath, she pushed the door open. At first, there was only darkness. Then she saw two darker figures in the farthest end of the room on the floor. She stepped inside, and turned on the lights. During the first two seconds she didn't understand what she saw. Miguel appeared to be lying on the floor, and Alana, kneeling and bending over him, seemed to be kissing his neck. There were drops of blood on the floor. Then Alana drew away from Miguel and turned to look at her, and Valeria saw the blood dripping from her lips and the raw, gaping wound on Miguel's neck. Valeria gasped, staggering back against the wall. "Don't move and be quiet,” Alana ordered, somewhat dazed, her voice a menacing hiss, like someone who had been interrupted from a deeply pleasurable dream and was annoyed by it. She straightened up for a moment. Then, bending again, she leaned over him and began to drink once more, though this time her black eyes were keenly fixed on Valeria. And Valeria thought ... Vampire! **** Alana blinked, accepting the accusation with a little nod of her eyes, her mouth still pressed to the wound. She was thrilled by Valeria's terror. And even as she drank, she was overwhelmed by her own shock and terror, by the despicable act she was committing, but the pleasure was too powerful, much too powerful for her will. The blood finished. He was gone. Alana drew a little away, then she stuck her tongue into the wound, greedy for the

precious last drops. Nothing left, gone. Finally she rose and looked at Valeria, who remained petrified against the wall. "Yes ... vampire,” Alana said, panting, licking any last trace of blood from her lips. She looked down at Miguel, and shuddered. The guilt was devastating, but it was mingled with ecstatic satisfaction. For a long moment she fixed her gaze on his gaping wound. Heal. Then gradually, like in a dream, the raw edges drew together again, the gaping wound closed until the only thing visible were two miniature puncture holes, two pin pricks . Like magic, like in a movie with excellent special effects, his neck was almost supple again. Except he was very pale, and very dead. Valeria shut her eyes. This is a nightmare, this is not happening. This is not happening! This is not possible! Dear God.... This cannot be real! Please, God, dear God ... ! "God cannot help you,” Alana said, almost sadly, desperately. “This is real, Valeria. This is what I've been hiding from you. You understand now, can't you, why I couldn't tell you?" "You killed him ... you ... drank his blood...” Valeria breathed. **** The bedroom reeked of blood, of death, mingled with the hot scent of Valeria. Succulent, little lascivious Valeria ... Dear God in Heaven ... What kind of monster was she! She had just had her fill of innocent blood, yet she was already lusting for more! Sighing miserably, she ran her fingers through her tousled hair. Some of the strands were speckled with blood. She wanted to sob, to scream. In fact, the urge to scream was so strong she had to grimace and bite her lips in order to stop herself. "You said he would pay for it ... you said sooner or later he would pay the price...” Valeria mumbled. "That has nothing to do with it. I'm not the avenging angel of justice. I'm a vampire. I just wanted his blood.” The words came out blunt, even though she hadn't meant them to be so. "Vampire." "Yes, Valeria. Just like in the horror books." "Sadash.” Valeria said, and swallowed. "Yes, Sadash. Remember what I told you when I came back from that trip to Istanbul? The man I saw in the bazaar—with fangs? Well, I didn't imagine it. It was not a hallucination. It was him. All along it has been him, since I was ten years old, in my nightmares, in my dreams, always him." "Your sleepwalking..." "Exactly." Valeria nodded slowly, biting her lower lip. "Don't do that,” Alana said coldly.

Valeria stared at her, awe-stricken. “What?" "Don't bite your lip. It makes me irrational,” Alana said. Glancing down at Miguel, she wondered how she was going to get rid of the body. She couldn't leave it here. If Sadash saw her now, if he saw what she had done... The awful reality of what she had done gradually began to sink in . She had not only killed an innocent man in her own bedroom, but she had also revealed herself to Valeria. And what was she going to do about it? Her beloved Valeria... Alana looked back at her, peering into her eyes. Soft, moist brown eyes, eyes that stared at her with awe and wonder. Yes, the terror was slowly subsiding. There wasn't so much fear anymore, as if in spite of it all Valeria trusted their bond, their love. Their pact. As if she somehow knew Alana would never hurt her. "Are you ... dead?” Valeria said. "In a way, yes. But I'm also immortal. I told you. It's everything you know from the horror books ... only with a few differences." "My God...” Valeria whispered. “How?" "No, don't ask me any questions now. I wouldn't know how to begin. It's a long story. Besides, I have to think what I am going to do about Miguel. Or have you already forgotten about him?" "Of course not!” Valeria said. “But I can't cry. I can't think anything. I'm in shock." "Really? You seem more shocked by the secrets of immortality than by his death." "Why do you suddenly hate me so?" "Because you're merciless, that's why,” Alana whispered with cruel satisfaction. “Have you ever loved any man?” Even after the feast, the fragrant scent of Valeria's blood was enough to blur her thoughts and make her giddy. "Merciless—me? You just killed him." "Yes, I'm a monster, I admit it. I loathe myself. Are you happy now?" Valeria began to cry. Big tears slid down her cheeks. She grimaced, looking down at Miguel, at the blood on the floor. I loved him, I did, I loved him . "No, you didn't,” Alana snapped. Valeria looked at Alana. For a split second, she seemed deeply trouble. “You can read my thoughts,” she said, her voice shaking a little. "What is it, my twin soul? Afraid I'm going to discover something I shouldn't discover?” Alana said. How strange. Valeria was suddenly consumed with guilt. Alana could feel it,

could almost smell it. Guilt like a wisp of vapor flowing out of her. But when she scanned her thoughts she couldn't get hold of any specific vision or image. "Like, for example, how Humberto came to be your first lover? No, don't bother denying it. I already know it. I already know what a little liar you are,” Alana said. "I didn't..." "Or how you witnessed my mother and Humberto's father together in bed. Making love. And you never told me." Valeria held her breath. The fact was she almost couldn't breathe. She was still stuck against the wall, the violent pulsing of her heart thudding inside Alana's head. Alana felt an uncontrollable desire to pull her roughly into her arms and shut the heart off with a deadly kiss. There she was again, lusting. The situation was ridiculous. And evil ... yes, yes, there was Absolute Evil. Miguel dead on the floor, sucked dry. She and Valeria playing little telepathic games. "Oh, my God...” Valeria whispered. “How did you learn that? I mean, how..." "Forget the when and why and how and just fill me in with the details." "Oh, Alana, I'm sorry I never told you. Yes, I knew it all along, that she had a lover, that it was Antonio. But I couldn't tell you. I didn't want to hurt you. Even after her death, I didn't want to hurt you." Alana caught the image. Flashes of it. Humberto's pool party. Playing hide and seek. Valeria sneaking upstairs to hide in one of the bedrooms. Valeria seeing them in bed. Her surprise. Her shock. They had not noticed her. In their rapture, they had not noticed her. "I'm sorry,” Valeria pleaded softly, honestly. “I kept the secret. I never told anybody. I couldn't tell you. I only saw them for a few seconds. They didn't see me. They didn't even notice someone had opened the door. At first glance I didn't even understand what they were doing. They were dressed, they weren't naked. I was very silent. I just closed the door again and went into another room to hide. My mind was reeling, but what was I supposed to do? I didn't want to upset you. I decided I wouldn't tell you anything. I decided I would keep the secret only to myself." "What else do you know? Did you ever see them again together? Anywhere else?" "No, never. I only saw them that one time, Alana. I swear. Never again,” Valeria said, wiping off the tears with her fingers. She was calmer now. She had stopped crying. "I'm going to ask you something, Valeria. And you better answer me truthfully or I'm going to wring your neck. On the day my mother died ... did you see Antonio coming into our house? You were roller skating outside in the street, remember?" Valeria stared blankly at her. “No...” she replied. "Are you sure?” Alana said. Once again, she tried to scan her thoughts, but this time without much success. Little flashes of Valeria skating, of Valeria falling and

scratching her knee. Little flashes of Valeria crying, phoning the ambulance, of Alana lifting her dead mother out of the pool. Sobbing faces. Confusion. Nothing else... And for a creepy second Alana vaguely realized the amazing strength of Valeria's will. "You didn't see any strange car parked in front of our house? Or anybody, man or woman, coming into our house?" "No...” she said again. She seemed puzzled. “I wasn't exactly skating right in front of your house. I was skating up and down the whole length of the street. And anyway, I wasn't there a long time. About fifteen minutes after I got there you and your uncle arrived. Why are you asking me this?" "None of your business,” Alana slowly said, narrowing her eyes, weighting Valeria's words in her mind. Valeria lowered her eyes, apparently intimidated by Alana's stare. “What are you going to do about Miguel?” she said quietly. "You should be more worried about what I'm going to do with you." "You wouldn't hurt me." "Don't be so sure." "No, I'm sure. You wouldn't hurt me." Alana regarded her for a moment, thoughtful. Valeria's behavior intrigued her. She didn't seem afraid anymore. An intense longing and restlessness had taken the place of fear. Valeria suddenly mumbled something. "What did you say?” Alana said. But she had heard perfectly well what Valeria had said. "Give it to me. Your blood,” Valeria whispered shyly. “Will I become like you ... if I drink from you, if you give me your blood?"

CHAPTER 14

Alana was at loss for words. "Make me like you." "No,” Alana said. Though, actually, the response was like a reflex, no feelings or deep thoughts were involved. It just seemed right, saying no. "Please." "No." Valeria moved a few steps forward, her hands slightly raised in question. She seemed heart stricken. “But why not? I don't understand.... Don't you want us to be together? Wouldn't you like making me like you?" "No." "Yes, you would. I know you would." Alana shook her head. “No." "Isn't that the reason why you came here tonight? You've been trying to stay away, but you can't stay away ... can you?" Alana shook her head again, appalled. “You're not the center of my universe, Valeria." "It's true, isn't it?” Valeria said, ignoring her. Yet her voice was so gentle, so yielding. "No, it isn't true. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but it isn't true. I came here because of totally different reasons. I came here to ask you..." "I don't think so,” Valeria cut her off, slowly shaking her head. “You came here because you wanted to see me, because you missed me, because you couldn't stay away from me. Because you love me." "If that's what you want to believe, go ahead, believe it. I don't have the energy nor the time right now to convince you otherwise. And to be quite honest with you I don't give a damn. Think what the hell you want. I won't bring you in with me. Not even if you kill yourself. I won't do it. Never." Stupid, stupid, stupid. She had been stupid to come here. She saw it now. Sadash had been right. And Valeria, in her own crazy way, was probably right, too. Why had she come here tonight? To ask a question to which there had been no answer? Had it been worth it—killing Miguel and revealing herself to Valeria?

"Why did you kill Miguel?” Valeria whispered. "You want to know the truth? I don't know! Because he was there. Because I was hungry, because I'm a killer, because he talked like the big bad wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. I don't know!” Alana burst out, pacing across the room and making a wild gesture with her arms. "I think I understand you. You didn't really want to kill him, but ... but something forced you to..." "Oh, you're wrong. That's the awful part. I wanted to kill him." "I think I understand you. Your new nature. I do, believe me." "You don't know anything!" "You wouldn't let me die ... you wouldn't let me grow old and die, would you?" "I can't..." "You wouldn't just watch me die ... not when you have the power to stop it." "You don't know what's involved. You don't know what you'd lose." "Oh, come on. Don't tell me I'll be selling my soul to the Devil. I don't believe in the Devil. You don't believe in the Devil. You want to believe, maybe that's why you took my crucifix last night and kissed it. Yes, maybe you want to believe in all of that now. In Heaven and Hell and God and the Devil. But you don't. I know you don't. And I don't, either.” She paused for breath, full of vehemence. “Just think about it. You and me. Against the whole goddamned world." Yes ... Alana had fantasized about it many times. The two vampiric twin souls. Against the whole goddamned world. The invincible pair. But why was it that at the end of the fantasy she always imagined destruction. Why wasn't there ever a happy ending? "He's not enough for you,” Valeria suddenly said. “That's why you're here." "You got it all wrong. You always have. I've never been obsessed about you the way you've always been about me. Do you know why I decided to go to Boston? To get away from you." "But you came back." "True,” Alana admitted. “And now, because of entirely different reasons, I'm away from you again. And I intend to leave it like that." "But you don't understand. Why did you come back? You could have stayed in Boston. Your chances of getting a job were a lot better there." Alana shrugged. “I missed this place. It was too cold there." "No, Alana. You missed me. You couldn't stay away from me. It's always been like that. Since we were little girls." "You're crazy,” Alana said, incredulous, angry now. “ You are the one who can't stay away from me. My God, you should have gone to a psychologist a long time

ago." "It doesn't matter anymore. Don't you see? Nothing else matters, except the power that you now possess, and that you can give me ... that we can share..." "It'd be destructive." "You have to..." "You don't know anything about it. You ask for it, but you don't know the rules." "Then tell me! Tell me everything. I want to know everything that happened to you." "The guilt...” Alana whispered, ignoring Valeria. "Because of killing?" "You don't get satisfied, if you don't kill." "But immortality, Alana? Immortality?" "Yes." "Give it to me!” Valeria said. With trembling fingers she unbuttoned her collar to fully exposed her neck. “What do you have to do—kill me? I trust you, Alana. I trust your love.” She stood there, waiting, looking at Alana with pleading eyes. Lovely eyes, as always. Big and brown and fringed with dark long lashes. The blond hair flowing dense and silky on her shoulders. The skin of her neck that light golden tan, almost covering the blue trace of the vein. Almost, but not quite. "Stop it,” Alana said, trying to keep her cool, trying to sound nonchalant. “You're vicious. It makes me detest you.” She wanted to hurt, hurt her. The words did hurt. Alana saw her recoil, but only for a second. "Give it to me,” Valeria said, slowly coming closer and closer to Alana. “I'll give myself to you. In love. Has any victim ever given himself or herself willingly? Like this? In love? Have you tasted that?" "What the hell do you know about blood? About what it tastes like?” Alana said. But she was appalled. She was repelled by Valeria's reaction, and at the same time wildly aroused. No, no one had ever given himself or herself in love to her. Only Sadash. But he was a vampire. The blood of a mortal was a totally different feeling. "He took a little of my blood once ... Sadash." Alana stared at her. “You're lying!” she roared. She tried to read her thoughts, to catch her in the lie. But she couldn't! She couldn't tell if what Valeria had said was a lie or the truth. The possibility that it could be true filled her with murderous rage. Valeria must have seen the venom in Alana's eyes. "I'm sorry. I ... I don't know why I said that,” Valeria mumbled, taking a step backwards in alarm. “I'm jealous ... I'm jealous of him." "Why did you lie? If it had been true, I would have killed you.” Yet, the fact was

Alana still couldn't tell for sure if it had been a lie or the truth. "Even then, you wouldn't have killed me." "You're incredible,” Alana said, exasperated. She felt like grabbing Valeria into her arms and get the whole goddamned thing over with. She glanced at Miguel. The devastating guilt she had felt at first had somehow subsided. Poor Miguel. Even Valeria seemed to have forgotten him. In the middle of this conversation he had become like an unwanted piece of luggage in the way. What was she going to do about him? How was she going to dispose of the body? She couldn't just leave him here, it would implicate Valeria. On the other hand ... if she did what Valeria wanted, there wouldn't be anybody to implicate. "Please...” Valeria whispered, standing dangerously close to Alana. “Afterwards you'll tell me all there is to know." "What's the rush? I mean, even if I decide to do what you wish, what's the hurry? Why not talk about it first? Why don't you want me to tell you everything, explain you everything, before you jump into this?" "I trust you. I'm overwhelmed. To think that something like this really does exist. But I trust you. Completely. What difference would it make to do it before or after? I just want you to do it. Now. I'm ready now. Later I may not want it. If I have time to think about it, I may not want it. Now it's perfect. I want it with all my heart, with all my soul. It would be like consummating our love. My God, the blood pact ... It was like an omen. Don't you see? Now the blood pact can truly be consummated. Our sisterhood, our bond, forever. Now we can truly become blood sisters,” Valeria said. She wrapped her arms around Alana's waist, and rested her head against Alana's shoulder. Alana's heart sank. How could she fight this? As long as distance kept them apart she still had a chance, even if that distance was only a few feet away. But like this— in her arms, feeling Valeria's pulsing heart right against her own, blinded by the overpowering scent of her blood—how could she? She was no human, but she was a creature made of flesh and blood, a creature who would forever be driven by the bloodlust. She stroked Valeria's hair, and listened to her crying as if in a dream. Actually, Valeria wasn't really crying. She was whimpering softly, like a little girl. And her hair smelled of apple pie. It was that silly shampoo she used, apples and cinnamon. Alana had already forgotten what apple pie tasted like, but now, smelling Valeria's hair, she remembered the smell. But it was only a tiny distracting smell compared to the flooding power of her blood. Of course, her closeness with Valeria amplified her hunger a hundredfold. The whole world shifted. Everything was silent, expect for Alana's heavy breathing and the relentless drumming of Valeria's heart. Alana took Valeria's face between her hands. They were nearly the same height. "I'm afraid...” Valeria whispered.

"Don't be.” A whisper, too, her voice. Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it ... ! She could feel Valeria holding her breath, shuddering against her, wrapping her arms tighter around her waist. Valeria's fear was ecstatic. And Alana was perversely thrilled by it. She had never behaved like this with any other mortal. She had never been so expertly patient, her will had never been so much in control. Every split second was precious, every split second had a feeling to offer. Everything is feeling to you.... Yes, everything is feeling... Lowering one hand, Alana searched for that spot vampires loved so well, that little pulsing spot where the artery throbs.... Ah, yes, here, just below the side of the jaw. It was like an obsession, thumb stroking this part of the human neck, swelling with life. Alana turned Valeria's head to the side, gently, as gently as she could. Her whole being craved for the core, for the fountain. Lowering her mouth to Valeria's neck, she began to graze the flesh, carefully, as lightly as a little cloud, as if trying to memorize her scent. Feeling Valeria stiffening, Alana grimaced, moving her head a little, opening her mouth, willing her fangs to become the fullest, the longest they could possibly get. From the corner of her eyes she saw a flash of blue. The next thing Alana knew she was being flung into the air with preternatural force. She crashed against the wall and collapsed onto the floor. Gasping for breath, panting, she brought a hand to her head, making sure it was still there. If she had been human, she would have been dead with a crushed skull now. She saw Sadash turning to Valeria. “You sleep, now!” he ordered her. For a moment Valeria's eyes widened, pupils oddly dilated as if in a coma. Then she fainted, falling onto the floor. Sadash looked at Alana. The look he flashed her sent a shiver down her back. "And you...” he began hoarsely, pointing at her. “I have ways of punishing you. Locking you up somewhere and starving you a little, for example." Alana flinched. No blood? The prospect was too horrific to contemplate. "What the hell did you think you were doing?” he said, gesturing to the room around him. “I expected you to use a little more common sense.” He was his usual, elegantly casual self: Black hair clean and lustrous, Levis 501, a white-and-blue striped shirt, expensive leather loafers. "You could have split my skull,” she protested, massaging her head and getting up from the floor. She was sore all over. "Maybe I should have. Believe me, I'm being gentle with you." "Kill me then, if you wish. You're my Maker, aren't you? You alone have the power to do it. I'm too cowardly to commit suicide." Her fierce words seemed to surprise him. “Don't play the victim,” he said.

"Well, it's true, isn't it?" "No, it's not true. I already explained that to you. Don't try to change the subject." Alana clenched her teeth, hating her fangs, which had not retracted yet. “How did you know I was here?" "Where else are the bees, but where the honey is?" "Is she going to be all right?” Alana said, humbler now. "I should have killed her. I should kill her, now, snap her neck, get it over with." "No! Please. You promised me. You told me you would never hurt them—the ones I love." "You told me you would stay away from these people. But you didn't, did you?" "I'm sorry,” she said. “I meant it, when I said it. I don't know what the hell happened. I can't control myself." He seemed disgusted. “Please don't start crying." "I'm trying." He turned to Miguel. “This man. Valeria's lover. Why did you kill him? Or was he simply too juicy to fight it?" "Sadash, please. The man is dead." "Oh, I can see that. Drained to the bone. And by you." "I came here to talk to Valeria. To ask her some things about my mother. But she had not arrived. The apartment was empty. Miguel arrived and he started playing hide-and-seek. He thought Valeria was hiding somewhere in the apartment and he started searching for her and surprised me in the closet and..." "And he was simply too juicy to fight it, right?" "Oh, Sadash, please! Don't make it so simple!" "You're the one making it complicated. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. As simple as that." "Maybe you're right. I don't know. He had a wife, kids ... I'm ... I'm consumed by guilt." "Yes. Especially when you were in Valeria's arms, you were consumed by guilt,” he said sarcastically. Alana reddened. “I know I don't have any excuses. I should have listened to you. I tried. I wanted to talk to you before I came here. I called you and searched for you and waited for you, but you didn't care." "Of all the Fledglings I've ever made, you're the damnedest. You're totally impulsive, and arrogant. Who do you think I am? You think you can have me by your side when you want, and send me away when you don't? You think I don't

have feelings? How could you possibly think I was responsible for your mother's death?" "It wasn't like that. I was angry at you. I didn't know what to think. I couldn't understand your attitude. I had the right to be angry.” Then she added sheepishly, “I'm sorry ... I didn't mean what I said. You know I didn't." "That's not the point." "Okay, I know that's not the point. I shouldn't have said what I said. I'm sorry. But why are you so angry? I don't think it's only because of last night. Is it because of ... Valeria? You're everything for me! What I feel for her is totally different. You don't have to be jealous." "Jealous?" "Everybody is jealous. You don't have to deny it." "Really? I'm impressed by your psychological insights." "Would you stop the sarcasm?" "It goes way beyond jealousy, Alana, way beyond. Just what were you going to do before I got here?" "Nothing!" "Anyway, it doesn't matter. I got here just in time." Her eyes dropped. What could she say to that? He was right. And she was relieved, yes, relieved that he had come in time to stop her. "Sadash, please, this is not getting us anywhere ... What are we going to do? About Miguel? About Valeria? She knows what we are. She doesn't know the details. She doesn't know how I came to be what I am, our past. But she knows we're vampires. She surprised me while I was ... on Miguel." "I told you, I should kill her. The mere sight of her is already getting on my nerves." "You wouldn't dare kill her, an innocent young woman." "Don't tempt me." "Sadash ... have you ever drank from her?" He chuckled suddenly. “Is that what she told you? You'd never guess how sneaky, how manipulative that girl really is." "You still didn't answer my question." "No, I've never touched her. Do you believe me, little Alana?” he said, a perverse smile on his face. But Alana believed him. "Let me kill her.” His eyes narrowed at the sight of Valeria on the floor. “I want to kill her."

"You know I would never allow it. I would never, never forgive you." "And you think I care, if you forgive me or not?" There was a silence. "Yes ... I think you care,” Alana said at last, coming over to him and wrapping her arms around him. He stiffened at first, but then he seemed to relax, and at once she was filled by his warmth, by his strength, by his love. She could tell he had just fed, he was very warm. He was here. In her arms. Her Sadash. And in spite of everything, she was overjoyed to have him beside her. He gave a sigh, lifting his hands to stroke the back of her head. She could still feel his anger, his jealousy, his possessiveness, for as much as he cared to pretend otherwise—all arrogance aside—she knew he wanted her only for himself. Just as she wanted him only for herself. He drew back to look into her eyes. “I could put a spell on her, but spells are not omnipotent. And she's strong-willed. Sooner or later she will remember,” he said. "She wanted it, Sadash. She begged me to do it." "Don't delude yourself. You've wanted her all along." "Because I don't want her to die, I don't want her to grow old and maybe fall prey to some terrible disease and die. Don't you understand? She's the only person I've ever been so close to. She took the place of my father ... even of my mother. How can I let her die? And she wanted so much to be like me, like us." After thoughtful moment, he said, “Did you talk to her, about your mother?" "No, I couldn't ... I mean, yes, but just a little. Then the conversation took a different turn. Sadash, I found out my mother had a lover. I saw it in Valeria's mind, last night. When I got home I called Uncle Angelo. I had a long talk with him. And he corroborated it. You knew this, of course, didn't you? That's what you meant when you told me there were many things about my mother I still didn't know." "Yes." "And you knew it was Humberto's father." "Yes." "I think my mother saw him the day of the accident. I think he came to our home to see her. Uncle Angelo has my mother's diary. I didn't even know she kept a diary. According to her last entry, she was supposed to meet him on the day she drowned, but she didn't say when or where. Sadash, please tell me. Was Antonio there that day? Did she see him? Is he involved in her death? Please, tell me, damn you!" "I told you, I don't want to get involved in this. But you don't need me. You seem to be doing pretty well in the investigations department.” Then he added, his eyes peering at her with an animal ferocity, “I'll tell you one thing, though. You were right last night, about my motives. I want to see you in action. I don't want you to suffer, but at the same time I want to have the full pleasure of seeing what you'll do ... when you find out the truth."

"So I was right." "About that, yes." "And you still insist in being silent, in not helping me?” When he didn't answer, she said dryly, “All right, perfectly all right, fine. I'll play it by your rules. I'll take care of it." "Good. Now we have to get rid of this body. Later, I'll arrange for an anonymous gift of money to be sent to the family." "You would do that?" "He had children. Contrary to what you might think, I have a conscience." Alana looked down at Miguel, and all the remorse and grief came flooding back to her. She didn't want to look at him. She wanted him out of her sight as soon as possible. It was cowardly and awful, what she felt, but she couldn't help it. "Can't you do it?” she mumbled. As a reply he flashed her a malevolent look. "You can do it,” she pleaded. “You can take him into your arms and take off somewhere. At a preternatural speed no one would see you." "I won't let you off that easily. Besides, I can go that fast only if I'm by myself. With a mortal body in my arms it would be much slower, and perfectly noticeable to the human eye." "It's dark outside, and almost four. The chances of someone seeing you..." "I've told you a hundred times. It's not safe to take chances. You'll have to be better than that." Alana considered, repulsed by her own thoughts. “We could put him in a ... plastic bag ... you know, a garbage bag." "Do you have any?" "I think so. I'll go and check,” she said, heading out of the bedroom. A moment later she came back, a miserable look on her face. “I couldn't find any,” she said. Sadash seemed exasperated. “Do you have a suitcase? A big one?" "Yes ... but he won't fit into it." "Just bring it, okay?" She did as she was told. The luggage was inside her closet, on the top shelf. She took it out and put it on the floor, close to Miguel. It was a big suitcase. But big enough to hold a dead body? Definitely not. "He won't fit into it,” she said, already afraid of what his response might be. "He will, if you cut off his head and legs." "No!"

"Do you have a knife? Big, steel blade?" "No!" "Bring it. Now." "Why are you doing this? You're doing this to punish me! We don't have to do this!" "What are you talking about?” he said innocently. “We have to. There won't be any blood, for obvious reasons,” he added with a twinge of mockery. "We can't do this! It's evil!" "Cut the hypocrisy. You just killed the bastard. Get a grip on yourself and bring the knife. We don't have all the time in the world, you know, dawn is less than two hours away." She stood nailed to the floor, hugging herself with her arms, with her eyes fixed on Miguel. Sadash cursed in Turkish. Then he went out of the room. A minute later he was back, a big, all-purpose, steel-blade knife in his hand. He moved his hand, and the steel flashed under the lights. Alana shuddered. But there was no stopping this. She was in the center of a powerful current, and she was being dragged along with it. What disturbed her was that her acts were getting worse and worse each day. The first time she had killed she had cried, she had been flabbergasted by the amount of guilt. There still was guilt now, but the tears were gone, and after a few years, or maybe even a few months, the guilt would be gone, too. It was getting easier and easier to kill, to commit despicable acts. Because this was a despicable act, cutting Miguel into pieces and stuffing him into a suitcase. This act was a lot worse than having killed him in the first place. "Have you ever done this before?” Alana said quietly, watching Sadash as he crouched on the floor beside Miguel. He looked at her, and for a moment his expression softened. “You still have much to learn,” he said. "I'll take that as a yes." "Exactly,” he said, his voice colder now. And he set to work. Alana turned her face away, grimacing, shutting her eyes. But she could hear the sounds. Hacking. Hacking. Sadash groaning. After a while her curiosity was too much and she had to look. First she glanced from the corner of her eyes, half covering her face with her hands. Blade going up and down, cutting, sawing. Just like when she was little and went to the horror movies. She always wanted to watch the bloody parts, but she was afraid, so she would cover her face with her hands and peer out from between her fingers. It was like that now. She wanted to watch the horror part, but she was afraid. From the corner of her eyes she caught a glimpse of the head, already tossed into

the big suitcase. By far the most awful thing she had ever witnessed. Drinking blood was different. There was perverse beauty in it, and a dark kind of love. After all, she had to kill. But this was different. She turned her face away again. When she glanced back she caught a glimpse of what appeared to be part of a leg, jagged bone and flesh visible. Something tiny and vicious was fluttering in the pit of her stomach, but there was no nausea, no gagging. By the end she was fully watching, her face too pale even for an immortal, her black eyes wide and full of the horror of her acceptance. Sadash tossed the headless torso into the luggage. He crammed all the pieces together, including the knife. Part of one leg didn't want to fit and Sadash took it in his hands and cracked it into two like a cookie. Then he cast it with the rest and zipped the suitcase closed. He got up and looked at her. His skin was perfect, slightly flushed but without sweat. But then, vampires never sweat. “Let's go,” he said, as naturally as if he had just gotten ready to go to the movies. “We have to get rid of this before dawn. We don't have much time." "Where are we going to put it?” she said. "I know a place." You have done this before. You know where to hide them. You have cut them up ... You have... "Alana." She blinked, staring at him. How could she love a creature like him? But then, was she any better? "What are we going to do about the blood?” she said. It wasn't much, but there was some blood on the floor, where he had hacked off the body parts. "Forget it. Or do you want to lick it with your greedy little tongue? We don't have time." "You're cruel." He gave her a dry smile. “Don't look at me like that. Do you think I enjoyed it? And remember this is all your fault. This is the kind of atrocity I wanted to prevent. If you would have listened to me, nothing like this would have happened. You should be glad I'm here to help you. Forget the blood. Forget Valeria, for now. Tonight we'll deal with her." "Wait...” Alana said. Sadash came to a halt in the door frame, suitcase in hand. Alana gathered Valeria into her arms and carefully laid her on the bed. When she looked back at Sadash she saw the most rueful, most serious expression on his face. "Pedestals collapse,” he said. Alana followed him out of the apartment, pondering his words. But she was so

tired she didn't even want to ask him about their meaning. She was afraid of what his response might be. Besides, her eyes were continuously fixed on the luggage. On what was inside it. On which cursed place in this city it would end up.

CHAPTER 15

Situated on one of the most prestigious residential areas of San Juan, Humberto's house—or rather, Antonio Curet's house—was a dazzling example of modern architecture. Symmetrical lines, a lot of white and glass. A great garden adorned the front of the house, bisected by a curving driveway. The driveway and the street in front of the house were filled with cars, most of them belonging to party guests. The breeze was warm, fragrant, and the coquies chirped lustily. A soft rock music spilled from the house out into the street. Sadash and Alana got out of the Porsche. They were impeccably dressed, Sadash in a dinner jacket and Alana in a strapless black dress. Around her neck was the brass snake choker she had used so many times as the hostess of La Cueva, and her hair was pinned up into a French twist. Alana looked at Sadash. In spite of herself, she had to admit he looked irresistible in his dinner jacket. He gave her an odd smile, offering her his hand, and Alana clung to him and hooked her arm with his. But after last night, the tension between them was like a sharp blade. They had disposed of Miguel's remains in a small isolated forest on the outskirts of the city. Sadash had dug a deep hole and buried the suitcase. Then they had driven back to his house, fast, very fast. He had leaped into his coffin with his hands and clothes still stained with mud and soil. Quickly, quickly, as there had not been much time. And she had climbed in next to him, hugging him, shutting her eyes very tightly, as if by shutting them she could make a little of the nightmare go away. And during those last seconds before falling into vampiric slumber, she couldn't help thinking that Sadash had, for some reason, done all of this on purpose, to teach her a lesson. He was cruel, so very cruel. And she was no better. It had all been her fault. She could have prevented Miguel's death. She could have. If only she could turn back the clock, if only she could go back in time. But it was useless, thinking like this. And Valeria ... What was she going to do about Valeria? ... Give it to me, I trust your love, I love you, do it, now, give it... Just before ringing Humberto's front doorbell, Sadash squeezed her arm. “Are you all right?” he asked. Alana nodded, but she realized he knew better than that. She had wished to come alone tonight, but Sadash had insisted in accompanying her, though she had made him promise not to interfere with any of her actions. When she had asked him what they would do about Valeria, he had simply said he didn't know. He seemed oddly

thoughtful, too, and unusually quiet. They would deal with Valeria later, he had muttered, bringing the subject to an end. The butler received them at the entrance hall, along with a few other guests. The guests had invitation cards in their hands. "Hello, Santiago,” Alana said, smiling. Santiago had been a butler here for many years. "Nice to see you, Senorita Piovanetti,” Santiago said. "I'm afraid I don't have any invitation card,” she said. “Humberto just invited me." "You and your friends are always welcome, Senorita. Please come in and enjoy the party." Alana followed Sadash into the house, scanning around for Señor Curet, for Humberto, for Valeria. But they weren't inside. There were many people in the living room, elegantly attired, with cigarettes and drinks in their hands, but the party was taking place outside in the pool area. The living room was enormous, Art Deco, with a lot of black leather and fossil rock tables and gold fixings and modern surrealist paintings on the walls. It was divided by a grand white stairway leading up to the bedrooms on the second floor. One wall was all glass, that is, sliding glass doors which were wide open displaying a full view of the pool and gardens. Alana halted, seeing Humberto in the distance. He was standing by the pool, a drink in his hand, talking to a girl Alana had never seen before. "What is it? Having second thoughts?” Sadash asked her. She looked at him, startled. “No. Come on." Outside, the breeze was deliciously soft and warm. The perfect weather for a night party by the pool. The pool was in the shape of a giant peanut, its waters crystal clear. She caught the smell of roast beef, rare. To the right side was a long buffet table filled with all sorts of food, to the left side, a long bar. The music played constantly, but low enough for people to carry out a conversation. Speakers had been installed beside palm trees and potted ferns. A slow, highly alluring music began to play, Madonna's “Justify My Love.” There must have been more than two hundred people, drinking, smoking, laughing, eating. There was a sophisticated, slightly artificial atmosphere to the place. Hand in hand, Alana and Sadash began walking toward Humberto. While talking to the girl, Humberto watched them approach. He seemed surprised, as if he had never thought Alana would actually come. For a moment his eyes settled on Sadash. Then he turned to the girl, excused himself, and began to approach them. "Humberto...” Alana said, smiling. She couldn't help herself, she was happy to see him. She kissed him, gave him a hug. "I'm glad you came,” Humberto said, drawing away from her.

"Me too. Humberto, this is Sadash ... Sadash Ölmez.” She made the introductions. Sadash and Humberto looked at each other, shaking hands. Humberto seemed reluctant, critical, though polite. She knew he was making an effort for her, she knew he wanted to understand. She didn't know what was on Sadash's mind, but he looked pleased, relaxed, even amused. "Nice meeting you,” Sadash said. “Alana has told me a lot about you. Too much, if you want the truth." "The pleasure's mine,” Humberto said. “Though I have to tell you it's the opposite here. Alana has hardly said anything about you." "Well, you know how I love mystery,” Alana said. "That I know,” Humberto said, somewhat dryly. He was clad in a dinner jacket, too, his dark brown hair neatly combed away from his face. And he smelled of pine after-shave, very masculine and luscious, though it was nothing compared to the dizzying aroma of his blood. His blood was the embodiment, the essence of what he was: male, young, strong, healthy, sweet, loyal. But here she was, rambling off again, letting her lust get hold of her. She tried to shove these thoughts off her mind. "Where's Valeria?” Alana asked him. "I don't know. She's not here yet,” Humberto said. “But she'll come. I spoke with her today." Alana exchanged a glance with Sadash. “Really? What did she say?" "Nothing,” he said, shrugging. “Just that she would come tonight." Alana scanned his thoughts. Innocence. Valeria hadn't told him anything about last night, though suspicion was pouring out of him like a waterfall. "Why do you look at me like that?” Humberto said. "Like what?” Alana said. "I don't know. You're looking at me in a strange way." "Don't be silly. You just look so ... ravishing tonight." "She's crazy about dinner jackets,” Sadash said, making a grimace of displeasure, his index finger trying to loosen a bit the tight collar around his neck. "Yes, I know,” Humberto said. “I remember." Alana read his thoughts. His were a lot easier to read than Valeria's. He was pure, his will much weaker than Valeria's. He was remembering their senior prom. Humberto had been her date for the prom, and he had worn a dinner jacket. The situation had been a little funny. He had been both Alana's and Valeria's date for the prom. The three musketeers. It had been Valeria's idea. "Valeria was acting strange over the phone,” Humberto said. “She sounded muddled, nervous. I thought she was drunk, or that she was having a hangover. She was at home. She didn't go to the office today."

"Oh ... really? Why not? Is she sick?” Alana said. "I don't know. I don't know what's wrong with her. She denied she was sick, or that she had drunk, or that there was anything wrong with her. She said she was just tired of the office and that she had decided to work at home today. She said she had been working at her computer all morning long. But I know she was lying. I called her a few times between nine and twelve, and there was no answer. I told her this, and she said she had simply ignored the phone. But I know her. She was lying,” Humberto said, nodding to make his point. Then he added, as if it explained everything, “You know her, you know how she is. If her aim is to hide something from you, no matter what it takes, she will. But then of course, you're like that, too." "I'll ... I'll talk to her when she comes,” Alana said, deciding to ignore his last words. "You saw how she was the other night, at the nightclub. She has been very worried about you,” he said, automatically throwing Sadash an accusatory look. “So have I." Sadash remained silent, almost condescending, though he lifted one hand to scratch his jaw. "Yes, I know,” Alana said. “But I told you already, I'm fine. Can't you see that?” How sad. She didn't know what else to tell him, how to reassure him. Better to stay away. After tonight she would always stay away. She had made her decision. If not Paris, then Istanbul. Or Sidney. Anywhere. But away. For an intense moment Humberto stared at her. How she wanted to confide in him, hold him, kiss him, soothe his pain, soothe her own pain! "Humberto ... where's your father?” Alana said, changing the subject. She didn't want to waste precious time. Do what you have to do, find what you have to find, then get the hell out. "My father? I don't know,” he said, glancing around him. “He's around here somewhere. I saw him a few minutes ago. Why?" She tried a smile. “I'd like to talk to him, say hello." "Maybe he's inside. He'll be very glad to see you.” Then he said, as if he couldn't believe he had forgotten his manners, “Listen, would you two like something to drink? Let me get you something to drink. What would you like?" But Alana was suddenly distracted. Her scent. She had caught her scent. Valeria's. Somewhere inside the house. "Can you excuse me for a moment?” Alana said. She threw Sadash a meaningful look. “You two go ahead and have a drink, get to know each other, okay? I'll be right back." Sadash's expression was indecipherable. He gave her a little nod of the head. She had expected a menacing look, a telepathic warning. But no, nothing. "Get to know each other,” Sadash repeated, darkly amused, turning to Humberto.

“Why not? I'll have a Coca-Cola, please, Humberto. Pure and on the rocks." Now it was Humberto's turn to sound amused. “A Coca-Cola, pure and on the rocks. Why not?” he said. “By the way, Alana. I see you still keep that necklace. I later remembered where I first saw it. It was in that club in L.A. I told you about— Fangs. There was a painting on one of the walls, and it showed the same snake, just like that one, with the fangs ready to strike." "Really?” Alana said, bringing a hand to her neck. “What a coincidence." "Yes, what a coincidence,” Sadash perversely said. "Yes ... Maybe the people who own La Cueva also own Fangs. They're very similar clubs,” Humberto said. "Maybe,” Alana admitted. She shrugged, smiling. “Well, anyway, I don't work there anymore. Now, if you please excuse me...” She looked at Sadash. Keep him here, she told him telepathically, Please. Sadash's only response was a smile, though what truly lay behind that smile she didn't know. She started toward the house. She knew Valeria was inside somewhere, but she couldn't picture where specifically. Before stepping inside, she looked back over her shoulder. Sadash was alone—Humberto had gone off to fetch his Coke—and he was watching her. Her Ottoman prince, her Turkish warrior. Impressively dark and tall in his dinner jacket, black locks flowing, and watching her. For a fraction of a second the saddest expression transformed his features, but then he appeared serious again, and cold. "I love you,” Alana whispered to him. He knew what she was up to. She knew he had caught Valeria's scent, too. Alana stepped inside the house. And as soon as she entered the living room, she saw her. Momentarily, Alana halted, holding her breath. Valeria was standing at the base of the stairway. Ominously enough, she was clad in red. Blood red. The short cocktail dress, the leather pumps, the matching little purse, all blood red. Only her transparent-sheer stockings were black. Her hair hung straight and silky down her shoulders, like a blond Indian, a perfect frame for her big brown eyes and blood red lips. From across the room, their eyes met. Valeria seemed anxious, afraid. Indeed, she was literally shaking. But when Alana tried to scan her thoughts all she saw was a brick wall. **** Seeing Alana, Valeria shuddered, willing herself to control her emotions, her raw fear. Slowly, her eyes never shifting from Alana, she began to climb the stairs. She had her mind made up. It had to be now, now, before it was too late. Dear God, there was no other way. With a force that literally made her temples throb, she tried to conceal her

thoughts, her intentions. Picture a brick wall ... a brick wall ... a brick wall.... Nothing but a brick wall... She turned her face away from Alana and continued up the stairs. But she was keenly aware of Alana following her, keenly aware of her presence behind her back. A brick wall ... a brick wall ... a brick wall... Once on the second floor, she hastened down the dimly-lit hall and stopped in front of one of the bedrooms. Almost panting, she opened the door and went inside. Darkness. One of the many guest rooms. Empty. She knew the house well. She had played here many times. With Humberto. With Alana. ...brick wall ... brick wall ... brick wall ... brick wall ... brick wall... The laughs and chatter and music downstairs were only resonant murmurs now, dark, portentous, like drumming in a voodoo ritual. But she was hardly aware of it, hardly aware of anything except for what she was about to do. The window curtains were drawn. It was better like this, in the dark. She made her way across the room and stood by the wall. With trembling hands she reached inside her purse. ...brick wall ... brick wall ... brick wall ... brick wall... She stood in the darkness staring at the half open door, waiting. **** Alana went in long strides down the hall, deeply intrigued by Valeria's behavior. She had to talk to Humberto's father, that's why she had come here tonight. But what was Valeria up to? So boldly clever, her little Valeria, first summoning her to follow, then trying to shield her thoughts with the brick wall trick. Though, annoyingly enough, it had worked. What had Valeria been doing all morning? Cleaning up blood? Getting rid of evidence? Planning her strategy? Gathering holy water and garlic and stakes and matches? In spite of everything, Alana had to smile, though sadly. After last night's disaster, she had made her decision. She would never yield to Valeria's wishes, she would never bring her into this nightmare. Soon she would never see Valeria again. She halted at the guest room doorway. "Valeria.... “Alana said, stepping inside the room and closing the door behind her. Alana could see her perfectly well. Even in the dark, every detail of Valeria was perfectly defined. "I knew you would be here tonight,” Valeria whispered. “I knew you would come." "What's wrong with you?" "Forgive me..." Alana's gaze dropped to Valeria's little red purse, where Valeria had slipped her

hand. Her black eyes widening with shock, Alana instantly knew what Valeria held in her hand, instantly pictured what would happen during the next few seconds. The brick wall was shattered, everything was shattered, except Valeria's chilling terror and undefeatable hope and love. "No!” Alana roared. But before Alana could get to her, Valeria pushed the gun into her abdomen and pulled the trigger. There was a quality of unreality to it all, as in a slow-moving surrealistic movie, not even a shot was heard. The gun must have been muffled when Valeria shoved it deep into her abdomen. The hell, Alana didn't know anything about guns! And neither did Valeria, for that matter! Where had she gotten the gun? Is that what she had been doing all morning, looking for a gun? But all these thoughts dashed through Alana's mind in a matter of a second. And even as Valeria was falling, Alana rushed to her side and gathered her into her arms, carefully laying her on the carpeted floor, which, with the white wall, was now splattered with blood. "Valeria,” Alana said. “ Why?" Valeria's eyes were half shut, her breathing uneven, her face suddenly shockingly pale. “Do it...” she whispered. Alana was sobbing with both anger and something else she didn't understand. “You stupid fool, you stupid incredible fool ... You could have killed yourself! You could have died instantly!" Valeria tried to smile, but her face twisted into a grimace of pain. “No, no ... I'll not die ... not before ... not before you do it,” she stammered, pausing for breath. Alana pressed her hand to Valeria's abdomen, to the wound. The wound was pulsing and hot. She pressed harder, her fingers soaking in the blood. Valeria gasped, grimacing again as if she had been struck by a sharp stab of pain. "Damn you, I should let you die,” Alana said, her tongue instinctively flickering out to lick her own blood tears. "The pact ... remember ... the pact...." "Jesus, Valeria.... It was only a game, we were just children!" "No, no ... it was real ... very real...." "But why like this?" "Do it ... now..." "Why like this? Why the urgency? Why!" " Please..."

"I should call an ambulance. Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll call an ambulance,” Alana said, though she didn't make any attempt to move. Who was she trying to fool? Valeria closed her eyes. “Don't let me die..." "Damn you ... I damn you into hell,” Alana whispered harshly. And quite abruptly, on her hands and knees, like a magnet to the source, she brought her mouth to the wound, to the blood draught she could no longer resist, her fangs still lengthening and sinking deeper into the flesh even as the priceless lava flowed down her throat. As if from another world, she felt Valeria shuddering under her grasp, grabbing her red hair, convulsing with pain. But this was ... glorious. Shutting her eyes, Alana sank her fangs and stuck her tongue deeper into the wound, oblivious to the punctured organs, the womb ... punctured ... doesn't matter, drink, drink her up, feast on it, nothing like this will ever come again ... offered in love, the most precious gift.... Has anybody given himself or herself in love? Have you tasted that? Oh yes ... exactly like this ... in love.... If Miguel's blood had been the most exquisite bliss, this was exactly that ten times over. Blood that flowed right from the womb, right from the seed of life, right from her twin soul. Valeria was soon motionless, engulfed by the lavishness. Oh, yes, Alana knew. She herself had known the rapture, the ecstatic ripples of pleasure. Enjoy her, for you'll never possess her like this again... The effort she had to make to pull herself away from the wound was crushing, almost paralyzing. But Valeria was hardly breathing, her heart weakly, unevenly pulsing. The exchange had to be made now. For a vertiginous moment Alana didn't know what to do. Valeria appeared to be unconscious and she herself was sitting on the floor with her legs bent under her, still intoxicated by the blood. Was she supposed to cut off her chest, as Sadash had done? No, she couldn't cut off her chest, just like that, like an animal. She was afraid, she didn't dare do that. Instead she brought her wrist to her mouth and, grimacing, slid her pointed teeth into it, making two little puncture holes. Immediately blood flowed, ruby red, warm, thick. Mesmerized by what was about to happen, by what she was about to create, Alana lowered her wrist toward Valeria's mouth, stopping just above Valeria's half open lips. Drip, drip, drip. The blood dripped into her mouth, trickling down the corners of her lips. During the first minute nothing happened, and Alana suddenly panicked. Was Valeria dead? Had she died before tasting the blood? Had Alana done something wrong? Had she missed something? But then Alana detected movement. Inside Valeria's mouth. The tongue. Yes, the tongue. Slowly, almost shyly, the tongue slipped out of her mouth to lick at the blood. The tongue flickered weakly across her lips. Valeria swallowing. Too much

blood. Valeria coughing. Valeria choking on it. Alana moved her dripping wrist from Valeria's mouth, watching intently for Valeria's next reaction. While watching her, she lapped at her own wrist. She didn't know for how long she lingered here, watching Valeria and lapping at her own wrist, waiting for Valeria's heart to stop. Five minutes? Ten? Fifteen? When she looked at her wrist she realized she had been lapping at nothing, the wound had healed some time ago, not even a little scar was visible. Lord, what kind of creature was she, that her cells could regenerate themselves like this? And what kind of creature was she about to create, by the mere exchange of their blood? That something like this could happen ... It was miraculous. It was science fiction turned reality. Valeria was dead. Her heart had stopped. Alana held her breath. Then she let it out slowly, heavily. So there it was finally. It was done. After so much mental debating, after so much agony. Done. There was no guilt in her, no remorse. But there was no happiness, no exhilaration either. In fact, she was suddenly overcome by a deep sense of dread. But then, she had been forced to do this, she hadn't had much choice in the matter. Sadash ... her beloved Sadash ... Why hadn't he intervened? Was he seeing what was happening, deep inside his mind? Why had not he burst into the room and propelled her against the wall as he had done last night? What was keeping him? She sighed, suddenly sickened by what had just happened. And how long would she have to wait now? A few minutes? A few hours? A few days? Sadash had told her the transformation time was highly unpredictable, it differed greatly from one being to another. She herself had been transformed in less than an hour, and Sadash had waited patiently by her side. He would have waited patiently by her side for as long as it took, he had told her. A sound in the corridor startled her. Steps along the corridor, past this bedroom, a door closing. Faint human smell, musky. She stood up suddenly, every muscle in her alert. She remained paralyzed for a moment, waiting for the next sound, for the next vibration of movement. Someone had walked into the next bedroom. That was all, no need for alarm. She relaxed a bit. The person who walked into this room would get the surprise of his life. Valeria was stretched out on the floor, her mouth trickling blood, her red dress soaked in blood, and though it was true the red dress made the blood less conspicuous, the white wall and plush silver gray carpet were splattered with blood. Blood, blood, so much blood. A painter would call it “A Study In Red.” And that's what her life was—A Study In Red. She herself was stained with blood, but her dress was black, thank God, the blood was hardly noticeable as such, the wet stains could have been wine just as well.

She walked into the adjoining bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was a mess, the French twist ruined, and her face and neck and hands were caked with blood. The tiny crevices of her snake choker were caked with blood too. The elegant little bathroom made such a contrast with her appearance. Pink marble, golden fixtures, richly thick cotton towels, a set of silver brush and comb, pink and fragrant miniature soaps. She leaned over the sink and washed, splashing herself with cold water. She dried herself with a towel and brushed her long hair with the silver brush. The bristles were too soft, they could hardly get into her hair, but it was better than nothing. Why did silver brushes always have maddeningly soft bristles? A sound in the other bedroom startled her again. She looked to the wall. And then it dawned on her. The bedroom next door belongs to Antonio Curet, that was he who just passed through the corridor! Slowly, Alana put the brush down. Then she walked out of the bathroom and looked down at Valeria. Still dead. It was no use trying to clean up the blood, trying to clean up the mess. It was no use getting rid of the gun. Soon there wouldn't be any body, anyway. No body, no crime. Crouching, she bent over Valeria and kissed her tenderly on the cheek, careful not to get any blood on herself. "I hope I'll never regret this,” Alana whispered. “You finally won, didn't you? You finally got what you wanted ... I must leave you for a little while now, my darling, but don't be afraid, I'll be right back. I want to be here when you wake up." She stood up, turned on her heels, and walked out of the bedroom. Outside in the dimly-lit corridor the resonance of the music was a lot louder. How surrealistic life is, she thought. That an elegant party is taking place downstairs, and that at the same time a dead woman is coming back to life upstairs. Jesus, the thought of it was enough to make her swoon. After closing the door behind her, she turned right and walked to the next door. Closing her eyes, she fastened her hand on the doorknob. Yes, he was inside. She could almost smell him. A surge of silent rage went through her. She opened her eyes and, turning the doorknob, crept inside the bedroom. The night lamps were on, beautiful soft yellow light. The bedroom was huge, elegantly yet very manly decorated in black and steel. A king-size bed, black satin sheets. A state-of-the-art stereo system and one of those giant TV screens. The carpet was thick and silky, steel gray, and there were many paintings on the walls, including a large Paul Delvaux, featuring two nymphs playing with each other, though whether the painting was an original or a copy Alana couldn't tell. The sound of running water came from the bathroom. And even though the

bathroom door was closed, Alana suddenly had a flash of him, leaning over the sink, washing his face and hands just as Alana had done a few minutes ago. Alana stared at the bed, at the shiny black satin sheets. Is there where her mother had given herself to him, drunk and high on God knows what? Lord, and all this time only Valeria had been the one to know, the one to see them. Alana hadn't had the slightest idea of what was going on ... no, no, she had been focusing her attention on raw liver, raw liver instead of her mother. The bathroom door opened and Antonio Curet came out. He halted at mid-step, however, when he saw her. "Alana...” he said at last, recognizing her. His voice was deep, surprised, puzzled. “What are you doing here?" For a moment Alana didn't know what to say. She seemed almost as surprised as he was. She had not seen him in four years, since that pool party he had given to celebrate Humberto's high school graduation. Now he looked so much like ... Humberto. Or rather, Humberto, in his developing maturity, was physically becoming more and more like his father. The same genes were there, undeniable. Dark and tall, with the same shiny brown hair—in Antonio's case, generously streaked with silver—and bushy dark eyebrows meeting above the nose. The only striking difference between them were the eyes. Humberto's eyes were kind, a warm softness always irradiated from them, but this man's eyes, behind the gold-rimmed glasses, were cold. Not evil or mean, just cold and hard, embittered by the years. He was clad in a tuxedo, his silver-streaked hair neatly brushed back, his suntanned face still flushed from the coldness of the water. He wore a gold Rolex on his wrist and a thick gold ring with the carved letter A on the smallest finger of his hand. He had splashed cologne onto his face, strong, metallic, masculine, and for a moment the fragrance distracted her. And Alana was forced to admit that in spite of his age—sixty, maybe sixty-five—he still was a hell of an attractive man. "Alana Piovanetti.” he said. He smiled, but he was confused. What was she doing here, in his bedroom? And he asked again, “What are you doing here?" "I need to talk to you. I need to ask you something." Antonio Curet thought of Laura. In fact that was the first thing he thought of as soon as he'd seen Alana. Through his mind, Alana saw flashes of her mother's face. A mixture of feelings flooded through him. Love, regret ... remorse? Alana wasn't quite sure, she could hardly get any specific incriminatory images from him. His will was stubborn and hard, like Valeria's. He took a few steps closer, looking expectantly at her. "I have to talk to you about my mother, about the day she drowned." He frowned, even more perplexed now. "You were there, weren't you?” she went on. “You came to see her, the day she drowned."

A subtle change came over his features. “I ... I didn't see her that day ... Why are you asking me this? Who told you this?” he said. But he was lying. He was lying! Alana instantly knew he was lying, as soon as that subtle change had come over his features. He was afraid! "There's no point denying it. I know you went to see her that day. I know everything. About your affair, about the way you treated her, about the way you played with her and then discarded her and fed her sleeping pills. I know everything. She wrote it all in her diary. It's all in there. Even your name is in there,” she said. She was partly bluffing, of course. He seemed paralyzed, looking at her, stunned by her words. "You wanted to get rid of her, didn't you?” she went on. “You were fed up. You couldn't take anymore of her calling you, her pleading with you, her harassing you. So you went to see her that last day, when she was alone in the pool. And you killed her. You saw she was drinking, you saw she was alone in the pool, and you gave her some sleeping pills hoping that something ... convenient ... would happen, hoping that she would drown. You tried your luck, and you were lucky." He shook his head slowly, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. “No ... you've got it all wrong. It didn't happen like that. I was there that day, but it didn't happen like that. I would have never, never hurt your mother." The raw, painful sincerity in his voice startled her. Now it was her turn to be baffled.

CHAPTER 16

Sadash took Valeria into his arms and hastened to the window. He had already opened it. It looked out over the front gardens and beyond to the street. With Valeria in arms, he leaped up like a cat to the window sill. Crouching, he narrowed his eyes and listened to the night. The front door was situated far from this window, three bedrooms over to the right. So much the better. Anyway, it didn't matter. The party was at its highest point, there was no one in the entrance or in the driveway. The music, the laughter pulsated from the back of the house. For a moment he closed his eyes. He could listen to Alana and Antonio talking in the next bedroom. He also had a vision of Humberto walking in the corridor towards his father's bedroom. Then he looked at Valeria. Still dead. There was not a second to lose. He had to be quick. He had to get out of here. He leaped into the air and flashed upwards to the sky, fast, as fast as his power allowed him, enveloping her in a tight embrace and praying she wouldn't wake from death before he was finished with her. He flew high over neighborhoods, highways, swamps, small forests. All the time brooding about what he was about to do. He didn't want to waver. He knew what he had to do, for his sake, for Alana's sake, even for Valeria's sake. The hell, he should have got rid of her a long time ago! A few minutes later he was where he wanted to be—in one of his many hiding places, a small country house in the outskirts of the city. Cozily desolated. With a cellar. Always the most important thing, a cellar. Sadash landed on the roof of the house and then leaped down to the ground. For a second he glanced up at the crescent moon, silver and bold, perfectly outlined against the velvet darkness. There was a delicious stench in the air, warm and moist and earthy. The mad shrieking of crickets and coquies was overwhelming, too, as if even they could feel the power of Sadash's emotion and excitement. A moment later he found himself deep in the concrete cellar, where it was cool and damp and the air stank with humidity. He put Valeria on the floor, her hair spread around her face like melted gold. She was still dead.

Do it now, now, don't wait another second, before the heart quivers with that sudden first spark of immortality, do it, now, for you, for Alana, for... He had never told Alana this.... Well, there were a few things about vampires she still didn't know, a few things he had not told her. It's not that he had kept this knowledge under his sleeve ... not exactly. There was a way, even after the exchange of blood had been made, of permanently preventing a mortal from turning into a vampire: burning the body to ashes while it's still dead. Standing over Valeria, his black hair tousled and his dinner jacket stained with blood, he lighted a match and prepared to drop it on her dead body. **** "So you admit it—you were there that day. You saw her,” Alana said. She could almost feel his inner struggle. "I...” He hesitated. “Yes." "Why did you lie just now, when I asked you?" He gave a sigh. “I don't know,” he said. “I really don't know. Your question ... took me by surprise ... after all these years. I never knew she kept a diary." "Well, she did. I didn't know it either, until last night. That's why I'm here now. I know for a fact she was killed, and you just said you were there that day, and I want to know if you killed her!" He suddenly smiled, bitterly. “And do you think I would admit it, even if I killed her? Do you think I would be that stupid?" "Did you?” she breathed. "No. I didn't kill her. I just told you, I would never have hurt Laura.” And then he added, more to himself then to her, “I loved her ... in my own way, I loved her.” He went over to the bar and poured himself half a glass of whiskey. Tilting back his head, he swallowed it all in one gulp. He sighed. Then he turned and looked at her. “Do you want a drink?” he said sullenly, assuming she needed one too. "No." "How do you know she was killed?" "I can't tell you that, but I know it for a fact. Take my word for it." He considered this for a moment, somewhat skeptical. "I wouldn't be here talking to you, if I weren't sure of it,” she added. Something in the gravity of her voice, in the ardor of her deep black eyes, must have made him believed her. “My God...” he mumbled. “When I left her ... she was just fine." "Why did you go to see her that day? What did you talk about?" "You wouldn't understand. You were just a little girl in those days, you wouldn't understand."

"Try me,” Alana said coldly. “I'm not a little girl anymore." "She was driving me crazy. I never made her any promises, I never made her any commitments. She just assumed I did. She was just...” He shook his head, his dark eyes glazed, as if his thoughts were going back in time. “I don't want to hurt your feelings, I don't want to hurt Laura's memory. That's just the way I was—the way I still am. I've never been able to make commitments to any woman, not even to Humberto's mother. I went there that day because I was hoping to reason with her. I was hoping she would realize our affair was over. I didn't want to hurt her, but—" "You used her." For a moment he stared at her. “What do you want me to tell you?” he said at last. “Yes, I used her." Anger rose within her. She felt like striking him. But something was wrong. This man had not killed anybody. Alana would have sensed it. If there was murder in his past she would have sensed it. There was guilt in him, though. Strong remorse. But not from murder. But she wanted to do something, hurt him in some way, even mildly. She wanted, somehow, to avenge her mother's frustration and suffering. "You fed her sleeping pills. You made her addicted to sleeping pills!” Alana said. "How do you know that?" "She wrote it all in her diary,” she bluffed. “I told you already." "I used to take them, now and then. She wanted them, she said she had trouble sleeping. She begged me to give them to her. She said she hated doctors. What did you expect me to do? She was a grown woman." "But you knew she was an alcoholic. You knew you would be putting her health in danger." "No, I didn't know she was an alcoholic, not at first. I thought she just liked drinking. It was after one year of our affair that I realized she was dependent." "But still you gave them to her!" He remained silent. He suddenly seemed overwhelmingly old and tired. “I've always felt sorry ... and guilty for what happened. You're young, Alana. You wouldn't understand. People make mistakes. When you're old, when you reach my age, then you'll understand.” He poured himself another shot of whiskey, and drained it all in one gulp. But he was wrong. She understood. Oh yes, she understood. Alana walked over to him, clasped his face between her hands, and forced him to look into her face. He was so surprised by the extraordinary strength of her arms that he let the empty glass of whiskey fall to the carpet. He gave a strangled whisper, and stared at her with startled, widened eyes. With perverse satisfaction she read his thoughts ... Not human.

"Did you give her any sleeping pills that day?” Alana asked, her voice almost a grating hiss. "No." "Did you give her aspirin—anything—that day?" At that moment the door opened and Humberto came into the room. "Alana?” Humberto asked, taken aback. “What's going on here?" But Alana ignored him. “Answer me!” she said to Antonio, pulling his head even closer to hers. Since she was much shorter than Antonio, Antonio's head was inclined over hers, and the position looked very unnatural. She tightened her clasp, and his face reddened. "No...” Antonio replied. "Alana, what are you doing?” Humberto said, coming closer to them. Alana flashed Humberto a wild, menacing look. “You stay where you are!” she ordered him. Humberto halted, mid-step, frowning, his brown eyes wide with disbelief. "I didn't give her anything,” Antonio went on. “She was fine, when I left her. I swear it! She cried a little after our argument. And she was a little drunk. She was drinking wine. But she only complained of a headache, that's all, she seemed fine. I offered to bring her some pain killers, but she said she had already had some. I swear it! I was there only twenty minutes or so. She kept asking me to leave. She was anxious about you coming early and finding us there. I kept all this to myself, after her death. I didn't want to get involved. I was afraid the police might think I was guilty, that they might think I was in some way responsible. But I wasn't!" " Someone killed her, someone who was there that day!" "She was alone in the house. I didn't see anybody, only your blonde friend, Valeria, but that was before I even entered into the house." For a split second the whole world halted inside Alana's mind. Valeria ... ? " What?” she whispered. "When I was in the car, on my way to your house ... I saw her—from far away— coming out the door..." "You saw Valeria coming out the door of our house? Are you sure?" "Yes ... But surely you don't think..." "Did she see you?" "No ... no, I don't think so. She started running in the opposite direction of the street. She had something in her arms, her skates, I think." "My God...” Humberto whispered. He seemed confused, but he had obviously

grasped some of the meaning and implications of what he had listened. “Dad ... you were her mother's lover? You were there the day she drowned?" "Yes, but I didn't kill her!" Alana shoved Antonio away from her, propelling him towards the wall. He collided against the wall and collapsed onto the floor, uttering a faint, incoherent curse. "No!” Humberto said, darting towards his father. He kneeled beside him on the floor, and made sure he was all right. “No, Alana,” he said, turning to her. “He's not a killer. I believe him. You must believe him." "Oh, I believe him,” Alana said. She was shattered. “And I forgive you, Antonio Curet, for what you did to my mother. I know about mistakes, and I forgive you. I'm really sorry for this mess, but I just had to know.” She walked towards the door, then stopped and turned around and fixed her gaze upon Humberto. "Alana, wait. Would you mind telling me—” Humberto began. "Don't ask me, Humberto. I'm sure your father will explain." His eyes were so pure, so beautiful, so full of perplexity and love. She could have drowned herself in those eyes, cleansed herself of all the darkness. "Never, never lose that look in your eyes,” she said. Then she added, “I would never have killed him, Humberto. Not even if he had been the one responsible for my mother's death. I would have sacrificed my revenge—for you.” And she went out of the room. She walked to the next bedroom in a steady, unperturbed pace, her fists clenched, slowing her breathing, as if by doing so she could make a little of the agony go away. But Valeria wasn't there anymore. **** Alana didn't stop to think about Sadash, or about where he might be at this moment. She was immersed in her thoughts about Valeria. She climbed to the window sill and leaped down to the garden. She felt as if she were under a spell, so numb, so totally despondent. She crossed the front garden like a zombie, unaware of the music, unaware of the little bunch of youngsters who had gathered in the driveway to smoke pot. Walking through the front gates, she had a vague glimpse of Sadash's Porsche parked across the street. And then, all of a sudden, she willed herself to rise, to float into the air, and she took off, ascending, ascending, ever so higher, closing her eyes. For an instant she saw herself screaming high up in the sky, shouting Valeria's name. But she didn't do it. She didn't scream. She continued to race through the night, the cool wind flapping her hair and the skirts of her gown, until she reached her old apartment. Why had she come here? She couldn't have answered this. She didn't know.

She landed on the balcony on her hands and knees, scratching and bruising the palms of her hands and scraping her knees with the impact. Then she sprang to her feet and went inside. The place was empty. She knew it would be empty. She still didn't know why she had been compelled to come here. It still smelled of Miguel. It still smelled of his death. Grimacing, she walked from room to room as in a trance, her eyes scanning the place for ... what? She didn't know. And then she found it. On top of Alana's bed, she found it. A note. Valeria's handwriting—confusing, mad, utterly childish scribbling. Alana had always told her she should have been a doctor. To the Virgin Vampire, By the time you find this I'll be either dead or immortal. Hopefully immortal—if everything goes according to plan. Forgive me. You must understand why I couldn't tell you. It was an accident, a reckless accident, but nevertheless it was my fault, and I could never stand the doubt in your eyes. I just had to have it, this power, this immortal gift, before you found out the truth. I'll never approach you, not until I know you've forgiven me—if ever you do. I love you too much to do otherwise. Forever yours—and now truly, literally, forever, Your Twin Soul Virgin Vampire? Was there mockery in these words? She could almost picture Valeria, writing these words with a wicked little smile on her face, biting her lower lip. Alana crumpled the note in her hands. Suddenly startled, she felt a strong familiar presence behind her. **** Sadash wrapped his arms around Alana's waist. He sighed heavily. He wanted so much to heal her sorrow, to erase the awful taste of betrayal. "Now you know why I didn't want to tell you,” he told her, lowering his head and rubbing his cheek against hers. “I'm sorry." "You knew it, you knew it all along ... and you never told me,” she whispered, her voice filled with sadness, filled with bitterness. He turned her around, forcing her to face him.

"I wanted you to find out the truth,” he told her. “I did. You had to know it. But at the same time I knew how much you would be hurt. It was a no-win situation." "Tell me something, Sadash. Why did you say it wasn't so simple? Why did you say hidden emotions were involved and not even you knew the absolute truth?" For a short moment he found himself admiring her deep black eyes. He couldn't help it. He could never get over them. Black eyes, slightly slanted, gypsy eyes. Such a contrast with her pale skin and rich red hair. "It happened like this, Alana,” he began, now willing to tell her everything. Well, almost everything. “Valeria went into your house that day, looking for you. She had forgotten you were at your skating lessons. She talked to your mother by the pool. Laura was drinking wine. She complained of a headache, and asked Valeria to bring her the migraine pills, which, as usual, were inside the little pill box by her bed. Valeria went into Laura's bedroom, but standing in front of the night table, she stopped. There were two pill boxes there. Now, this is the part I'm not sure of. Either it was a complete accident, and she brought Laura the wrong pill box ... or Valeria— quite conscious of what she was doing —left it to luck and snatched the first pill box she thought of, anticipating the possible consequences. Laura, already drunk, took the sleeping pills believing them to be pain killers. Laura had already done this many times before—mixed wine with sleeping pills. It wouldn't have been such a big deal if she had not been by the pool. But after seeing Antonio she jumped into the water, she swam a little, and some time after that she must have passed out and drowned. It didn't take me long to realize what had happened." Alana stared at him, aghast. “What are you saying? That it was a little game for Valeria? That she knew one pill box contained the pain killers and the other pill box contained the sleeping pills ... but yet she didn't stop to check which contained which ... and just snatched up one of them and left the consequences to luck? Like Russian roulette? But why?" "I don't know,” Sadash said, making a helpless gesture with his hands. “I'm not sure. Face it, Alana. She's always been obsessed with you. Jealous. And sickly protective. Maybe she didn't want your mother to cause you more pain. Maybe she wanted you to be an orphan, just as she herself was. I don't know. I'm not a psychologist! But again, I don't want to be unfair, and don't want to judge her wrongly. Maybe it was an accident, a terrible reckless accident, just as she wrote you in that note. I can't be sure. I can't penetrate everybody's secret thoughts. I'm not omnipotent. And she's strong. Her psychic power is strong. More than you think." "Oh, don't worry, I know,” Alana muttered. “I couldn't see through her, even with my preternatural power, I couldn't see through her. I couldn't even tell if she was lying last night, when I asked her about my mother. Only for a moment I perceived a keen flash of guilt, but that was all. I didn't catch any images from her.” She drew away from Sadash and walked over to the glass doors, her eyes peering far off into the night. “Do you know what I did tonight?” she asked in a small voice, her naked arms falling limply at her sides. “To Valeria?"

"Yes." Alana turned around to face him. “How do you know?" "I saw her. When she jumped down from the bedroom window. I saw her,” he lied. "Where is she now?" "I don't know. I didn't follow her. I knew sooner or later it would happen." "Why didn't you try to stop me?" He gave her an odd, sarcastic half smile. “And compete with a mortal, knowing full well sooner or later you would get your hands on her? I decided I wouldn't compete with that sweet, alluring spell of a mortal. On the other hand, if she became a vampire...” his voice trailed off. Then he added, slipping his hands into his pockets, “Nothing can compete with the enticement of a mortal. You don't desire her anymore ... didn't you notice? You blood isn't burning for her anymore. Not like before." Alana didn't answer him, but Sadash knew it was the truth. He suddenly was overwhelmed by the urge to wrap her into his arms and take her far away from here. He wanted so much to make her forget. There were so many things he wished to show her, so many pleasures and treasures and secrets he wished to share with her. "Her suffering seemed so sincere ... after my mother's death,” Alana mumbled. “What makes you think it wasn't a complete accident? What makes you think she was playing Russian roulette?" "She kept having these little fantasies, you see ... about killing your mother,” Sadash said. The expression on Alana's face burned through him like acid, but he had to say this. It was the truth. “That's why I became instantly suspicious of her, after your mother died. But again, I don't know. Fantasies are just that—fantasies. It doesn't mean she actually made them real." With a beckoning smile, he extended his arms towards her. “Come to me. Don't look so sad. It gives me unbearable pain." She didn't move, her eyes lowered to the floor. She would have made a mesmerizing portrait for any painter, with her sorrowful yet bold gaze, her perfectly curved white throat, her lustrous red hair streaming down her back. The swell of her breasts, which he suddenly wanted to impale with his teeth and deplete of blood, was also perfect. Sadash gave a sigh. Since she didn't go to him, he went to her. "What would you have done?” he asked her, clasping her shoulders. “If you would have found out the truth before giving her your blood?" "I don't know." Sadash pulled her to him, enveloping her in his embrace like a bat envelops his young with his wings.

And while she sobbed quietly against his chest, he rocked her from side to side and thought to himself. He had not dropped the match over Valeria's body. Something, at the last moment, had made him stop. Maybe his own conscience. Maybe his loyalty to Alana. Or maybe the simple fact that, after all, he believed Valeria to be innocent. He really didn't know. The hell with everything. Valeria had awakened from death, her moist brown eyes glowing with the dark hunger. And he had let her go. And then, quite annoyingly, he had been forced to go to his house in order to change his blood-stained clothes. Thank God he always kept a spare dinner jacket at the back of the closet. "Maybe I'll never stop loving her,” Alana said against his throbbing heart, sobbing. “But I'll never, never forgive her." "Shhh...” Sadash whispered soothingly, pressing her tighter against him. "I hate what I am. You seduced me, you didn't give me a choice. You want me to believe you gave me a choice, but you didn't, and I hate you, and I hate what I am." "Shhh...” he whispered again. Sadash sighed one more time, looking up to the ceiling, telling himself to be patient. Having to deal with the tantrums and depressions of a Fledgling was all part of the curse and blessing of being a Maker.

Epilogue

Brussels, Belgium, years later... It was Christmas Eve in the Grand Place, the old cobbled plaza in the ancient heart of the city. The place was filled with lights. It had been lavishly decorated for the holidays. Huge and radiant white-and-golden angels had been propped up in pedestals all around the plaza, their open wings blazing as if on fire. In between these golden angels were big golden bells and floral arrangements in red and green and gold. The gothic church, high and imposing, loomed above the plaza like an angry mystic giant. There was music, Christmas carols softly pouring out of hidden speakers, and the air was filled with the aroma of roasted chestnuts and the pungent spicy smell of hot wine to heat the blood. For it was freezing cold, and everybody was wrapped up in their warmest coats and scarves and gloves. Many were drinking hot wine, the Styrofoam cups close to their faces to catch the rising steam. In the very center of the plaza an ice-skating rink had been placed. Skaters went this way and that, swirling, showing off. Some people watched the skaters, others strolled around the plaza, admiring the angels and humming to the carols. The old church clock struck midnight. Alana and Sadash stood among the crowd. She went up on tiptoe and kissed him full on the lips. "Merry Christmas,” she told him, smiling anxiously. She knew he didn't believe in Christmas—she didn't even know if she herself believed, even though she still kept Valeria's crucifix against her throat—but she wanted to capture the purity, the intensity of the moment, and in this Sadash did believe. Sadash smiled back. His large hand clasped the nape of her neck, and pulling her to him, he lowered his face and kissed her. After a long moment she drew away from him, and gazed deeply into his eyes. Her love for him was as perfect as his physical self. Black wool coat shielding his tall panther-like body, red scarf contrasting with the blackness of his hair, warm amber eyes glowing under the slanted brows of a demon. Perfect. "She's here somewhere,” he said. “And I'll be right here. Go on."

Alana could hardly breathe. “All right..." She turned from him and peered all around her as she walked through the crowd. She had been trying to communicate with Valeria for the past few months, trying to send her images and little telepathic messages, summoning her. It had taken Alana a long time to reach this level of forgiveness. All through the plaza she walked, hardly aware of anything except the awful tightening sensation in her chest and stomach. There was a little alcove beside the old gothic church, a place that had been saved for the golden icon of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus imbedded in a slab of carved stone. It was supposed to be holy, this thing, and people were supposed to touch the face of the Virgin and Jesus as they passed by. It was here, in this alcove, that Alana found her. Valeria was standing in front of the icon, touching it with her hands, her back to Alana. She was clad in a long red wool coat, and her sleek blond hair shimmered under the light of the golden angels. "Everybody does this ... touches them, I mean,” Valeria said, somewhat shyly, without turning around. Hearing her soft husky voice after so long, Alana held her breath. She took a few steps forward. Then she stood motionless, staring at the back of Valeria's blond head. Her own long red hair, her black wool cape puffed lightly in the breeze. "Do you think it has an effect, if I touch them? Do you think something changes?” Valeria asked. "I don't know,” Alana said after a thoughtful moment. A few more steps and she was side by side with Valeria, and Alana reached out with one hand to touch the icon. Her fingers stroked the face of the Virgin and baby Jesus. “I don't think so,” she finally said. And then they looked at each other. "Me neither,” Valeria whispered. Her big brown eyes were suffused with emotion, but she didn't move, she didn't blink, she didn't even breathe. Alana embraced her gently, feeling Valeria's body shuddering against her, feeling Valeria's arms closing around her waist. "Don't you dare cry now,” Alana said. “We're in public.” And she closed her eyes, glad to have her in her arms. The End

Author Bio Mayra Calvani is the author of two books. Her stories, articles and reviews have appeared in many online and print publications in the States, England and Puerto Rico. In addition, she is assistant editor of Voice in the Dark newsletter, where she writes a monthly column. She has lived in America, Asia, the Middle East, and is now settled in Brussels, Belgium, where she lives with her husband, two children and a variety of pets. Her hobbies include playing the violin and astronomy/sky observing.

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