by Lisa Moore
Back on my bike, and back on the road, twilight descends as I make my way home. It seems the strange weather that was threatening earlier, has finally made its way over the region. The weather in upstate New York can change in an instant. One minute it could be 70 and clear and the next a snow squall can roll through, layering the area in white. I am riding straight into the storms path. Ominous dark clouds roil overhead and fat snowflakes pelt my helmet and face shield. I remove the helmet to see, it’s only for show anyway. Fear of unwanted attention from a cop has me wear it, not fear of injury. For anyone else, a night like this on a motorcycle would spark a sense of dread or fear being stuck out in this kind of storm. For me, it ignites a sense of excitement. I push the bike to its limit, as I race through the heavily falling snow. The road is slick and winding and for a mere mortal this would be a deadly ride but for me it is a chance to seek the thrills my special nature allows me to seek. My vision and reflexes allow me to maneuver my bike like no man can. I make my way through deepening snow cover up to the crest of a hill and several miles of country highway stretch out in front of me. I make out lights and smoke up ahead, it seems someone has not fared as well as I in this storm.
I slow my pace as I near the wreck. The first thing that assaults my senses is the smell of blood. My predatory nature, already aroused by my interaction with Nurse Littlefield and my letting loose on the ride, is now significantly in play. I take a moment to regain my composure and decide to see if there is anyone who needs my assistance. After all, I helped those two hikers, at that time there was plenty of blood and opportunity to “fall off the wagon” so to speak, yet I followed the right path.
I parked my bike up past the wreck. As I passed I saw the likely cause of the accident. Not far from my bike lay a large buck, well over 250 pounds. It lay dead in a pool of its own blood creating an oddly beautiful, lace like pattern, in the freshly fallen snow. I could see the large gash in its neck, caused in the collision with the small SUV that hit it, the exit site of all that blood; what a waste.
The SUV rested on its roof, the drivers side door slammed up against the remains of the old Birch tree that stopped its forward progress. The smell of gasoline was pungent as was the metallic smell of fresh human blood. I managed to pull open the passenger side door, the jumbled contents of the vehicle strewn about the interior along with the upside down nature of the vehicle was slightly disorienting. Then I saw her. Even paler now then she was at the American Legion hall, a lot more than a pint of her blood spilled here, the young girl from the blood drive lay barely breathing. Even with my exceptional strength the job of extricating this girl from the wreck was difficult. I didn’t want to hurt her further as I tried to untangle her from the mass of crumpled steel.
Just as I free her from the wreck the first wisps of smoke start to rise as the gasoline ignites and the car begins to go up in flames. As I lay the young lady down on the snow covered ground, I note the extent of her injuries. While not a doctor I have studied the human body long enough to know she will not survive her injuries. I kneel down to see if she is responsive. Her breathing comes in wet gurgling rasps, her eyes rolled up so that only the whites are visible. She has pretty green eyes that as I touch her arm come momentarily back into focus. Just then the wind howls, like the cry of a dying animal the shrieking gust swirls around us. This fans the flames of the wrecked car intensifying the heat causing the rear tire to burst. The gust fans a second flame, one rising in me. The smell of all the blood and the intensity of the fire, coupled with my pre existing predatory state of arousal, are more than I can take. When my hand touches her neck to feel her pulse, barely there but palpable to my heightened senses, I lose the last tendril of control over the predator within and, before I realize my actions, my elongated canines are sunk deep into her pale neck. I drain the little blood she had left to give.
As the last drop of blood is drawn into my cells I pull back from this young blood donor. I am sure when she decided at the last minute to donate blood today, that this was not what she intended. I feel guilty for my action, more because it seems so vulgar than for remorse for her death. I take no blame for her death, I hastened it surely but I also know that with me her pain and suffering ended. When I touched her arm and her eyes focused momentarily it was because she was released from pain. It took just one whiff of the pheromones emanating from me and the touch of my skin to hers allowing the electric charge I emit to interrupt her brain impulses, and she was free. Free from the pain she must have been enduring for nearly an hour. She was gone when I started helping nurse Littlefield pack the blood for transport. I remember looking up to see if she was ok, and she was gone. She had at least an hour head start on me. But the crudeness of draining her blood still bothers me. While I drink human blood, it has been a long time since I have drank straight from a body.
To cover my indiscretion with the blood donor, I fling her remains into the heart of the burning wreck. The force I throw her with causes her to be mangled back within the wreckage. As the flames lick her twisted form, she quickly becomes engulfed. The last view I have of her is her face, peaceful in death, then swallowed by orange. With my acute sense of hearing I can just make out the wail of a siren in the distance. Someone from one of the nearby farms must have seen the smoke or heard the crash and reported it. I review the scene before me to ensure I have left no trace of my presence behind. The falling snow is a small problem. I have left many footprints. Most prints closest to the wreck are quickly obscured by the fire. It is the prints to and from my bike and the wreck that may bring unwanted attention to an especially astute first responder. I prefer to avoid any contact with authority figures, especially just after having stolen blood from a blood drive and drank more from this poor crash victim. I know most people would have a difficult time accepting my behavior; I’m having a difficult time of it myself.
After a quick consideration of the positives and negatives of me sticking around, I decided to chance leaving. I hoped the people who respond to the wreck would sufficiently muddle the scene. That, coupled with the rapidly falling snow, settled my decision to make a hasty retreat.
Chapter 11
A Chance Encounter
The remainder of my return trip to my farm was uneventful. With the death of the donor, so died my desire for a fun ride. I drove fast and strait and reached home quickly. The fallen snow, now several inches of fluffy white, lines my drive. I pull my bike into the barn. After unpacking my stolen prize and storing it safely away I catch a glimpse of myself in my reflection in a window. It’s a good thing I chose to leave the accident scene, I look a mess. I take off my clothes, stained in soot, smudged with blood and dirt, and in my customary way of covering my tracks, burn them.
After a brief shower I look at the clock and see the college library will still be open for several hours. I decide to finally sit down and see what I can find out about Augustine Angelone. As I make my way on campus it is clear that few students are willing to brave the cold snowy evening. The parking lot was nearly deserted and there are few tracks in the snow leading to and from the campus library. By the time I settle myself in front of one of the many computers that fill this area of the library; the clock shows 9:00pm. I have the library virtually to myself. Having passed only a handful of scattered dedicated students, doggedly working away at their various studies, I settle myself into a corner computer and begin.
I first tried to Google the name Augustine Angelone. There were a few hits, a landscaper in Michigan, a salon owner in California, lots of sites for Saint Augustine, none for the Augustine I was seeking. Next, I typed in Professor Lillian Bean’s name to my search engine. She came up in several places. First I went to Hills University web site. Lily was listed in the faculty profile section. Through a little digging I came across several research papers along with a link to her Masters thesis, “An Exploration of the Genetic Similarities of Hematophagic Organisms with a Cross Comparison to the Human Genome”. S
he was comparing the DNA from animals that drink blood for food like the bat, leech, and mosquito and cross comparing their DNA to human DNA. I have done similar work and am anxious to discuss the topic with her.
The more I find out about this woman the more I want to know. I need to learn more about what she knows, or thinks she knows about vampires. With some more intriguing reading provided by her various research paper submissions I finally came across Augustine Angelone’s name in a footnote. All it said was his name along with date of birth and death and “The collected writings and research on vampire mythology—a private collection” as a reference. I would very much like to see that private collection. I guess I will just have to ask Lily about him. I will tell her I signed up for the New Zealand trip, and that I did a little research into her previous work. Maybe I’ll ask her out for a drink to discuss the trip and see where the discussion leads.
After a few more futile attempts at finding anything further about Augustine Angelone I decided to call it a night. My trip was certainly not in vain as I learned quite a bit about Lily from her work. Since I was so near her house I thought a quick trip to the oak tree was warranted. I made my way through the fallen snow. The campus was tomb quiet under its white embrace. I was approaching the path through the woods that Lily frequents as her short cut home when I picked up her scent. As I came around the side of the science annex Lily was just ahead at the approach to the path. I called out to her as she stood hesitating at the paths entrance.
She turned around at her name and I was rewarded with her beautiful smile, and a quickly returned “Hello Max”. I asked her why she was on campus so late and she told me she just got finished watching Hills woman’s basketball whip Delhi 98-62. She asked me where I was heading and I quickly improvised that I was heading to the bus stop to catch a bus back toward my farm. There is a bus stop on the end of the street where the path opens up to. I lied and told her my car battery was dead and I had to leave my car at the library. Her mood seemed to be instantly buoyed. She had seemed hesitant to take the path a moment ago.
“Great!” said Lily. “I was just contemplating this walk through the woods and snow alone and was not looking forward to it. It’s pretty bright with the snow and the moon but there have been a few times lately that when I take this path at night I sometimes feel like something is following me or watching me. My research is probably just giving me the willies.” And that was the opening I needed. Could she have sensed me on the occasions I followed her or was this more of the generic creepy feelings from the dark woods? As we walked the path I had her follow behind me. I cut a path through the snow pointing out the various pitfalls as we went along reminding her to stay in my foot steps because there could be hidden rocks or roots under the snow and I didn’t want her to trip. Just as the words were leaving my lips Lily stepped slightly to the right of my path and yelped as she twisted her ankle in a hidden depression in the path. I turned in time to catch her gloved hand as she stumbled forward into my arms.
For a moment we stood there, my arms protectively wrapped around her, steadying her. I could feel her warmth radiate from her and her scent was intoxicating. I could have stood like that for eternity and been happy. She looked up at me with a sheepish grin and said “Nice save”. I smiled down at her and asked if she could walk. She said she thought she was fine but the first step she took on her sore ankle registered a pained grimace on her face. “Oh wow, that really hurt. I have glass ankles and should have known better then to try this path tonight. It’s just so convenient, it practically leads to my back door” she said.
The path let out onto a small cul-de-sac. At the end of that block a quick right turn took her to her house. “Well it’s a good thing I am here to help” I said as I quickly swept her up in my arms and proceeded to carry her the rest of the way down the path. Her instant displeasure about being carried was evident. She fussed, squirmed and protested at the indignity. I told her to stop arguing and assured her I was not about to put her down until she was safely home. She resigned and agreed, then told me her address. It is a good thing she did, because I was absently going to her home anyway though I should have no reason to know where she lives. I almost gave myself away. This woman makes me throw caution to the wind.
After a last complaint, that she was too heavy to carry and that I should let her walk with my support, was met with a stern look, she acquiesced, and allowed me to carry her. As I strode off down the path I made my way effortlessly through the snow and trees. She was a mere feather in my arms. The second woman today I had cradled against me. This ending would be quite different, I was sure. As I made my way to her door she told me to bring her close to the mailbox. Hidden in a small crack in the shingle she pulled out a key. She handed me the key and I let us in. A vampire does not need to be invited in to cross a threshold of someone’s home. There is no place that I can’t go just by my being a vampire, churches included.
The small entrance way led to a mudroom. There I sat Lily on the narrow bench reserved for removing boots and winter gear. I helped her off with her coat and gingerly helped her off with her boots. Her right ankle was swollen and already had signs of purple around the outside. Lily informed me she had an old soccer injury to that ankle that predisposed her to easy sprains. After taking off my own soaking boots I helped her into the kitchen where we were met by the sound of a low guttural growl. From under the kitchen table Lily called to Pumpkin. “Pumpkin, what’s gotten into you? Come girl its ok.” With that Pumpkin, Lily’s black lab, cautiously made its way out from under the table. Whining as it went, it slowly moved to its masters’ side, eyes never leaving mine for a second. “I’m sorry Max she is usually very friendly. “It’s ok” I said, “Animals usually have good instincts. Maybe she smells all the different farm smells on me and is wary. Its ok girl,” I said as I extended my hand down for her to smell. “I won’t hurt your master. Good girl.” I continued. Pumpkin reluctantly and warily retreated back to her bed in the corner of the kitchen. I helped Lily get situated in a chair with some ice on her foot.
What Lily has yet to discern about me is all too clear to the dog. She senses the predator in me. Her response to me is part survival instinct, part defense mode. She is not comfortable with me around Lily. Dogs have an incredible ability to judge a persons character. From a glance at your posture, facial expressions and scent they can tell a person’s intentions. Once Pumpkin gets past her natural survival instinct to flee me she will see my intentions for Lily are good.
“Can I get you anything else before I leave?” I ask. Lily’s response was as I had hoped. “The bus runs on the hour after 9:30, its only 10:15 now. Sit a while, I can make us some tea if you would like. I can’t have you standing outside in the snow for 45 minutes; you’ll catch your death, as my mother would say.” I was hoping for a chance to stay and talk to this intriguing woman. “I’ll stay” I replied, “but only if you let me make the tea.” I got up and grabbed a teapot from the hanging rack above the sink before she could argue. After filling it with water and setting it on the stove to boil, Lily told me where the mugs and tea were. I got the sugar bowl/honey dipper set she had on the counter next to the stove and placed that and the mugs and tea on the table. “Do you need cream?” she asked. “No the honey is enough for me, thanks.” I replied as I took a seat next to her.
“How does your ankle feel?” I asked eager to start the conversation. “It’s ok. I’ll be fine by tomorrow. I have an old brace I can put on if it’s still sore in the morning. But now I guess I have to catch the bus in the morning since the path is obviously out of the question.” She replied. “Don’t you have a car?” I ask. “Yes, but I hate to drive to school when I live so close, one more car in an already overcrowded lot. I usually take the path or the bus, both very convenient for me, besides my car doesn’t do well in the snow. It’s more of a warm weather car.” She said. “What are you driving?” I inquire. “A 64 Mustang convertible. She and the dog a
re like my children. My father and I rebuilt that car from a rusted out shell when I was 10. I won’t even take her out in the rain, but on a nice sunny day, I love to go for a ride with the top down. If given the opportunity I usually like to open her up. She rides very well and I’m a speed junkie.”
I admire the way she is so comfortable in her own skin. Lily is a confident, intelligent and self assured woman, and I am falling deeply in love with her. “I’m a bit of a speed junkie myself. My vehicle of choice is a motorcycle. Right now I’m riding a 2009 Indian. Maybe when the weather clears up we can go for a ride together.” I try to say this casually. “I would love a ride on your bike. I’m not comfortable enough driving a motorcycle to get a good speed thrill.” She responded with a beaming smile, like an excited child anticipating Christmas. “I look forward to the next fair weather day!” I said enthusiastically. Lily was so easy to talk to. Around her I feel totally at ease. It is almost as if my body, sensing her presence, reflexively relaxes.
The whistle from the tea pot stops our friendly banter. Pumpkin, who finally seemed to have settled down and stop giving me the eye, leapt up at the sound, emitting a low guttural growl in my direction. “Shh, girl, it’s ok. It’s just the teapot.” I say as reassuringly as I can. I remove the pot from the stove and pour us both tea. The delicate smell of jasmine instantly fills the small kitchen. Once seated again, I call Pumpkin to me. She hesitates and looks to Lily for encouragement. Lily smiles at Pumpkin and at me. The dog slowly ambles over and gives me a tentative sniff. I gently pat her back and start to slowly scratch her behind the ear. This seems to calm her and she lays down at my feet contented. “Well, that’s good news” Lily says gesturing toward Pumpkin lying at my feet. “I was starting to wonder if we would be able to continue with this developing friendship. If you didn’t pass Pumpkin’s character assessment, I don’t know.”
