The Demon Lover

by Juliet Dark

  THIRTY-THREE

  It was an unusually cold January all over, with record low temperatures from New York to Florida—where the citrus crops were destroyed, nesting sea turtles were brought into hotel rooms to keep from freezing, and manatees huddled around the warm currents coming from electrical plant pipes—but in Fairwick it was arctic. For most of the month the temperature stayed in the single digits. Who wouldn’t choose to hibernate? Each day I drew Ralph’s shadow and burnt it while repeating the spell for safe travel, but he remained soundly asleep. When I put him back in his basket I’d find myself wanting to crawl back into bed instead of tromping through the snow to lecture a class full of sleepy college students in an overheated classroom.

  It was perfectly normal, I told myself, that I’d want to crawl back into bed when I came home from campus and that I’d want to spend all weekend curled up on the library couch with Liam. It’s not as if we made love all the time. Sometimes we’d read and Liam would make tea and cinnamon rolls at 4:00. Sometimes we’d watch old movies. Liam, as I’d guessed from his Facebook page, loved the same romantic comedies I did—the old classics like Bringing Up Baby, It Happened One Night, and The Philadelphia Story and also their modern counterparts, like Annie Hall, Sleepless in Seattle, and You’ve Got Mail. He knew them all practically line for line, and yet they still seemed to surprise him.

  “They start out not liking each other, but then they fall in love. They keep fighting even while they are falling in love. Why is that? Do they have to start out not liking each other to fall in love?”

  “It makes a better story,” I told him. “It would be too easy if they liked each other from the beginning and the things that irk them about each other … Well, maybe those are things they really are looking for but are afraid to believe exists.”

  “Is that why they’re always with other people in the beginning? Because they’ve given up on finding the right person and settled for the wrong one?”

  “Maybe,” I said, wondering if he was thinking of me and Paul—or him and Moira. When we got to the part in You’ve Got Mail just before Tom Hanks appears in Riverside Park and Meg Ryan finds out that her secret pen pal is really the man who put her out of business, Liam asked, “If I lied to you about something that big—pretending to be someone I wasn’t—would you be able to forgive me?” he asked.

  “Uh-oh, don’t tell me, you’re a spy from the Dahlia LaMotte Society and you’ve been having wild, passionate sex with me just to gain access to her papers.”

  I hoped the reference to “wild, passionate sex” would divert him—perhaps toward some more of the same—but instead he became even more agitated. He got up and started pacing back and forth in front of the bookcases.

  “All these books you read and write about, your romances, do you think they really tell the truth about love?” He plucked a copy of Evelina from the shelf. “Could a person read them and learn how to be in love?”

  “They’re not operating manuals,” I snipped, growing irritated now. I didn’t have the energy for a philosophical debate on the nature of love. Or maybe he’d hit a nerve. I sometimes wondered if the reason I read romances was to figure out what it meant to be in love. But then I sometimes worried that reading all those romances had left me dissatisfied with love in real life. “There’s no such thing. People learn to love from experience. It takes time. You can’t study it like studying the piano or economics …”

  Perhaps it was my choice of economics with its reminder of Paul that teed him off.

  “Then what good are they?” he asked, lobbing Evelina across the room and then stomping out of the library.

  “Hey! That’s a 1906 edition!” I called after him. I considered following him, but I suddenly felt too tired—tired of Liam’s outbursts and just plain tired. I burrowed into the couch, covering myself with the fluffy alpaca throw that Phoenix had bought. It still smelled like Jack Daniel’s and Shalimar. The thought of Phoenix made me feel sorry for myself. Everybody left. Phoenix. Paul. Now Liam. I’d worked myself up to a good cry when Liam came back, repentant and smelling like the outdoors. His forehead was cool when he pressed it against mine.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Do you want to watch the rest of the movie?”

  “No,” I said, wrapping my arms around his neck. “I think we ought to get you some more experience in the art of love.”

  “Oh,” he said, scooping me up in his arms and heading for the stairs. “Like this?”

  “Rhett Butler One-Oh-One—yes, exactly like this.”

  As January slid into February, I had to admit that my constant fatigue was more than the effects of lots of sex. Something was wrong with me. Since I didn’t have a family doctor in the area yet, I went to the school infirmary before my class. After walking through a light snow I found a crowded waiting room full of sniffling, bleary-eyed students and a harassed nurse.

  “What’s going on?” I asked when I signed in—I recognized some students’ names on the sign-up sheet: Flonia Rugova and Nicky Ballard and also Richie Esposito, whom I remembered from the creative writing class. “Is it swine flu?”

  The nurse, whose ID badge identified her as Lesley Wayman, held up a finger for me to wait while she sneezed. “No,” she said. “That’s mostly passed. There’s something else going around. Dr. Mondello thinks it’s mono, although so far the tests have all come back negative.”

  “What were their symptoms?” I asked.

  “Fatigue, night sweats, anemia.”

  “Huh. I have the fatigue, but I haven’t noticed any night sweats …” I said, but then I realized, blushing, that I did sweat a lot at night—but that was because of what I was doing at night. And I had no idea whether I was anemic or not, although I never had been before.

  “Have a seat,” Nurse Wayman said. “The doctor will be with you as soon as she can.”

  I sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair—the only seat left—and took out a pile of papers to grade. The room was certainly quiet enough to get some work done. The only noise was the hiss of the steam heaters and the muted whisper of MP3 players plugged into many of the students’ ears. I graded two papers—adding the scratch of my red pen to the hushed atmosphere—before noticing something peculiar. I was sitting in a room full of college students and no one was talking. Shouldn’t a group of eighteen-to-twenty-two-year-olds, all attending the same small college, have something to say to one another?

  I looked up and scanned the room’s occupants. Directly across from me, sprawled in a too small chair, was a shaggy-haired boy with a goatee and silver nose ring. I recognized him from Liam’s class, but didn’t recall his name. Wes? Will? Waylon? Something with a W. Or maybe I thought that because a flying W—the trademark of the band Weezer—was tattooed on his neck. His eyes were closed, his head bobbing to the music leaking tinnily out of his plastic ear buds … or no, actually, his head was nodding because he was asleep. Each time his head fell heavily forward he snapped it up again and made a strangled gurgle. It was painful to watch but also a teeny bit funny. I looked around to see if anyone else was noticing his nodding-out performance, but everyone else was either asleep or staring vacantly into space or out the windows at the now heavily falling snow. Not only wasn’t anyone talking, no one was even reading, writing, or sketching. The only person who even had a book in her lap was Flonia Rugova, who I noticed now curled up in the one comfortable-looking sofa. I got up and went over to her. She flinched when I put my hand on her shoulder.

  “Professor McFay, where did you come from? I didn’t see you there.”

  “I’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes, but I didn’t notice you either. I was grading papers. I’d say you didn’t see me because you were so engrossed in your book, but although I’m not an expert on Czech, I’m pretty sure you don’t read it upside down.”

  Flonia glanced down at the book in her lap—Czes³aw Mi³osz’s Collected Poems in the original. “Oh,” she said. “I’m reading it for the indep
endent study I’m doing with Mr. Doyle and Dr. Demisovski. It’s really great but somehow I read two lines and then find myself staring into space.” She yawned. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I seem to sleep all the time and I have such strange dreams …”

  “Flonia Rugova?”

  I thought that Flonia had stopped midsentence because Nurse Wayman had called her name, but she hadn’t made any move to get up or acknowledge the sound of her name and when I looked down I saw that she had actually fallen asleep.

  “Flonia?” I laid my hand on her bare forearm. Her skin was cold to the touch. “I think it’s your turn.”

  “Oh!” she cried, startling awake. The color in her cheeks darkened and she stared at me as if she didn’t know who I was.

  “Miss Rugova?” The nurse was standing over us. “Dr. Mondello will see you now.”

  Flonia smiled at me and got up. The book of poems fell to the floor. I picked it up and handed it to her. “Czes³aw Mi³osz!” she exclaimed, as if she’d never seen the book before. “I love him. Thanks!”

  Dr. Kathy Mondello, a tall woman with closely cropped gray hair and large serious eyes, listened as attentively to my symptoms as she did to my heart and lungs. She peered into my throat and ears, palpated my glands, and took my blood. She asked me the standard questions.

  “Any shortness of breath?”

  “No,” I answered, recalling the gasps I made while making love to Liam.

  “Heart palpitations?”

  “I don’t think so.” My heart felt like it was racing right then as I thought about Liam.

  “Dizziness?”

  “Not really.” I didn’t think the swoony feeling I got when I looked into Liam’s eyes counted.

  “Weight loss?”

  “I wish! I’ve been eating like a truck driver.”

  “Really? Because I noticed your pants are loose. Have you weighed yourself lately?”

  I admitted I hadn’t and she asked me to step on the scale. I was five pounds lighter than when I’d weighed myself last, which was just before Christmas.

  “Do you eat at the cafeteria?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “Why? Do you think this is some kind of food poisoning?”

  “No, there’s been no stomach involvement, but I am seeing a lot of anemia. I wondered if there was some food at the cafeteria that leached iron from the blood. Certain foods are iron absorption inhibitors—red wine, coffee, tea, spinach, chard, sweet potatoes, whole grains, and soy. Have you been eating large quantities of any of those foods?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” I answered.

  She sighed. “Neither have any of the others who have anemia. I’m afraid it was a bit of a screwball idea.” She laughed good-naturedly at herself. “But not as screwball as my first thought.”

  “And what was that?” I asked.

  “Vampires,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows in mock horror. “Honestly, when I started seeing all this anemia my first thought was it’s like all these kids are being drained of their blood.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  I left the infirmary feeling worse than when I came. Although Dr. Mondello had been joking—clearly she was not in on the Fairwick secret—I couldn’t help wondering if she was on to something. Were the Russian studies professors preying on the student body? Draining them of blood? It seemed improbable. Surely they wouldn’t be allowed here on the campus if they couldn’t be trusted with the students, but then Frank had said that there’d been similar complaints against the college in the past. I had to tell someone what I suspected … but who? Liz Book was in no shape to take action. Maybe the vampires had felt free to prey on the students because they thought the dean was too weakened to do anything about it. Or maybe they were the ones who were making her so weak.

  I was so distracted in class that I could barely pay attention. Fortunately I was showing a film: the original 1931 Dracula with Bela Lugosi. It was not the best choice for a dreary snowy morning. By the time the count made his way to England, half the class was asleep and I didn’t have the heart to nudge them awake. Instead of watching the film I studied the somnolent faces of my students, who looked, in the flickering reflection of the black-and-white film, as wan and lifeless as poor silly Lucy Westenra as she lay in her big Victorian bed drained by the count. I couldn’t see any bite marks on their necks, but then plenty of them were wearing turtlenecks or scarves. Besides, I’d read enough vampire books to know the neck wasn’t the only place that could be bitten.

  Five minutes before the end of class—just before Van Helsing and Jonathan Harker save Mina—I stopped the film and turned on the lights. My students blinked and covered their eyes like a pack of young vampires exposed to the sunlight, but instead of burning to a crisp they yawned and surreptitiously checked their laptops and cell phones for messages.

  “So, do you think they’re able to save Mina?” I asked the class, hoping that at least those who had read the book would have an answer.

  But instead Nicky Ballard—who I was sure had read the book—answered, “What difference would it make? She’s already been contaminated by Dracula. She’ll never be the same.”

  I was so startled by the note of despair in Nicky’s voice that I asked her to stay after class. I’d seen her name on the infirmary sign-in sheet and noticed that she seemed pale and tired, but it wasn’t until I saw her close up that I realized how bad she really looked. Her skin was the bluish white of skimmed milk, her eyes circled with purple rings, and her dark hair hung in oily strings around her face. Just a couple of weeks ago she’d looked happy and well-rested.

  “Nicky, what’s wrong? Are you sick?”

  She shrugged. “They did a bunch of tests at the infirmary, but they couldn’t really find anything except a B12 deficiency. I’m going for shots, but they’re not really helping.” She yawned.

  “Are you sleeping okay?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’ve been staying in the dorm again.” A faint flush of pink rose in her cheeks, but the blush didn’t bring any life to her face; it merely made her look feverish and drew attention to the rash on her forehead and around her mouth. “Our suite is kind of crowded because Mara asked Flonia to move in last term because I was always with Ben, but then Ben and I had a big fight last week and broke up and I had to move back into the dorm.”

  “I’m sorry, Nicky. I know how rough that is.”

  “You broke up with your boyfriend, too, didn’t you?”

  I didn’t really like to talk about my private life with my students, but Nicky was looking at me with such naked desperation that I didn’t have the heart not to answer her question.

  “Yes. It was painful, but then I realized we weren’t really meant to be together.”

  Nicky nodded and bit her lip. “Then you got together with Professor Doyle. So it was really all for the best. Flonia says a new man is the best cure for a broken heart.”

  “Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that …” I began, but then, seeing the look on Nicky’s face, I paused. Here was a seventeen-year-old girl—almost eighteen—asking for my advice. So far I’d provided a model of a woman who’d leapt from one relationship right into another with barely a pause for breath. Is that what I wanted Nicky to do? I imagined her jumping into bed with the next available boy. Who knew? That might be how she would get pregnant and ruin her life. Instead of averting the curse, my example would lead to its fulfillment.

  “It’s not such a good idea to rush into another relationship so soon when you’re still hurting from the last. You’re not in the best frame of mind for making decisions and you may wind up hurting yourself and the other person.”

  “But you and Professor Doyle …”

  “Are older and our circumstances were different … Still, who knows how things will work out for us? At least we’re mature enough to deal with the consequences of our mistakes. You should be concentrating on school right now and working on your own dreams …”r />
  “But that’s just it!” Nicky cried, her face flushing red now. “I have these awful dreams. I’m lost in a frozen forest and I see these icicles hanging from the trees. They’re like the ornaments people make around here, but in each one of these is a dream I once had—to be a writer, to be loved, to travel, to find my place in the world. And they’re all melting. I run from one to another, trying to catch my dreams before they melt and drip to the forest floor, but they all run through my fingers. When I wake up I know that I’ll never realize any of my dreams. I’ll be like my mother and my grandmother. I’ll live alone in that old house until I die.”

  “We all wonder at some point if we’ll ever realize our dreams,” I told Nicky, remembering moments in college when I thought my grandmother was probably right about me and I’d never amount to anything. “But that’s just fear talking. It sneaks up on you when you’re tired and sad and whispers bad stories in your ears.”

  Nicky startled and looked up at me. “That’s exactly what it feels like, Dr. McFay. I wake up in the morning and I feel like someone’s been whispering awful things in my ear all night long. That’s why I’m so tired all that time. That whispering is keeping me up.”

  “Maybe you should sleep with earplugs,” I suggested, only half kidding. “And lock your door at night,” I added, wondering if Nicky’s night-whisperer might be one of the vampires stealing into her room.

  Nicky wiped her eyes and managed a weak smile. “The earplugs are actually a good idea. Mara and Flonia stay up late talking and it’s hard to sleep hearing their voices.” Nicky looked down at her watch. “Uh-oh, I’m late for Mr. Doyle’s class. I’d better go. Thank you so much for listening to my silly little problems, Professor McFay. It means a lot to me to have someone I can talk to.”