At the Twilight's Last Gleaming

by David Bischoff

  “There it is. They didn’t have dust covers back then. Illustrations on the inside, though.”

  “I know.” I reached out and picked it up. “Shouldn’t this be in a plastic bag or something?”

  “Paper’s not acid. I suppose that a bibliofile might have something for it. At least put it in a glass bookcase.”

  “So sit down and let’s look at it. It only seems fitting that Lucy and Count Dracula should examine this volume together, although I think the Count would want to change the end a bit.”

  Emory had been looking nervous and awkward, but that little bit of humor disarmed him. He chuckled and he sat by me.

  Even though he sat at a respectable distance, his proximity effected me. My goodness, he was handsome! For the thousandth time, I was surprised that I hadn’t noticed how good-looking he was when I’d first seen him, even beneath his bad posture and his withdrawn attitude. Up close, he also smelled good and there was a terrific sense of presence to him, a kind of coiled power.

  I could feel a thrill race through my body from head to toes -- and then settle strongly in my mid-section.

  “Okay,” he said. He leaned over and opened up the book. “Here’s a very cool picture of Jonathan Harker and the three brides of Dracula at Dracula’s castle in the Carpathians.”

  The illustration was nice indeed. It was color and on a plate, and in the style of the American classic illustrators like Howard Pyle.

  “Wow!” I said. “Very nice.”

  I touched the book. “Paper’s nice. And I really like the print.”

  “They made books differently back then, that’s for sure,” said Emory. “Now up next is the ship that Count Dracula takes across the North Sea to England for his nefarious mission.”

  “I never thought of that,” I said. “But I guess that Dracula was a missionary!”

  Emory laughed. “I don’t think Bram Stoker thought of it that way. I’m sure with all the references to rats, he was referencing the Black Death much more. Vampirism as an infection.”

  We leafed through a few more pages.

  “This is where I come in,” I said... “Oh look. The ladies there. I guess that’s me!”

  “Lucy,” said Emory in a thoughtful way.

  “I guess if Oscar Wilde had written Dracula, I’d be “Lucian”, wouldn’t I?”

  Emory smiled, loosening up. He looked at me with open affection and admiration. “You are the funny one, aren’t you?”

  I smiled at him, and was caught up in his gaze.

  He had the kind of eyes now that I guess you’d call sleepy eyes. Sort of half open or half closed, giving them a lazy, languorous quality. The effect swept right over anything like reason in me. He was just so....attractive. So close to me, so touchable and sweet.

  Was he leaning toward me?

  No.

  I was leaning toward him, as though drawn in by those half-open eyes, that smile. As though everything about him was an invitation, that my body had no choice but to accept.

  I leaned forward and kissed him.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE NATURE OF any kind of personal experience, I find, is very hard to communicate to others. I think that’s why, when you make an effort to share something, and another person not only has had a similar experience, but feels the same way about it, there’s a thrilling connection that is made.

  That first kiss with Emory Clarke was like that.

  Decades later, I can close my eyes and feel it.

  As a teen, I’d tried kissing boys here and there, and frankly was so disappointed in the result that I’d never much sought a steady boyfriend to kiss again and again before I’d met Peter Harrigan.

  My kiss with Emory Clarke wasn’t like that.

  No, not at all.

  It was the kind of kiss, in fact, that I didn’t even have the self-awareness at the time to evaluate.

  I just kind of fell into that kiss, like an abyss.

  My heart hammered.

  I had thought that kisses were cold and rubbery. This one, was soft and embracing. Emory responded immediately, as though he couldn’t help himself either. He pushed himself against me, embraced me, and fell into that kiss as well. We kind of locked together.

  I lost all my senses. I forgot who I was. All I was was that kiss.

  All of a sudden, the kiss was gone.

  I lunged forward to grab it before it was gone forever, but was held back by a hand.

  I opened my eyes, and there was Emory, looking tousled and totally adorable, with a perplexed and terrified expression in his eyes.

  “Oh dear!” I said, putting my hand to my head. “I don’t know what came over --”

  “I must excuse myself,” said Emory.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Emory.”

  “Don’t move, okay? I just have...” He looked sheepish. “I mean to say, Nature calls.”

  “Okay, all right. Sure,” I said. “Sure.”

  He hurriedly left the room.

  I put my hands to my face, and fell to the cushions, not sure of anything. I was a mess with my feelings all ajumble and akimbo.

  Most of all, though, I felt dizzy.

  Just close your eyes, I thought. Just close your eyes and the moment will pass.

  I closed my eyes.

  And there was darkness.

  “Rebecca,” came a voice.

  “Whu -- What?”

  “Rebecca, wake up!”

  “Huh?”

  I opened my eyes.

  I didn’t know where I was.

  I was in a room. I could see that I was lying on a couch in a room and in front of me was a bed.

  “You fell asleep,” came a voice.

  I looked up.

  Over me was a boy with a odd look on his face. He gently shook my shoulder again.

  “Asleep,” I murmured. “Oh..ouch,” I said

  There was a pain in my head.

  As rapidly as it came, it went away though, and the universe slowly coalesced in front of me.

  “Emory!” I said.

  I pushed myself up. I still felt a bit woozy, but most of all, as reality dawned, I was shocked.

  “Yes. That’s me.”

  “Emory. I...We...”

  I’m sure my expression was chagrined.

  “I mean,” I said. “I guess ...I kissed you! I don’t know what came over me! That’s just...well...that’s just not like me.”

  He was thoughtful. “It’s late. We can talk about it later, okay? Now, I just better get you home, okay?”

  “Home. Home... yes, that’s a good idea.” I struggled to get myself up, and the pain came again, shooting down from my head to my neck.

  “Oooh. Oww,” I said.

  “Oh my! Are you all right,” said Emory, resting a concerned hand on my shoulder.

  Once more, just as quickly as the pain had come, it went away.

  “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. That root beer must have been kind of strong for me.”

  He laughed softly. “That is strong root beer, I confess.”

  He bit his lip, looking down at me.

  Suddenly, he was on his knees, holding my hand.

  “Rebecca. Do forgive me. I fear I took advantage of you. I assure you, when we went to this room, it was not my intention.”

  “Silly. You’d better stop being so adorable or I’m going to grab you again.”

  He blushed.

  “Look,” I said. “We’re young. Things are confusing, right? We can talk about it tomorrow, like you say.”

  “You ....forgive me then?”

  “Only if you forgive me!” I pasted a pained smile on my face.

  The smile returned to his face. He rose gracefully, and step
ped back. He extended a courteous hand to help me get up.

  “Okay. But maybe, as Shakespeare might say, in order to not strain the quality of mercy, we’d best keep our distance for the rest of the evening.”

  IT’S FUNNY HOW people can talk around things.

  As I took his hand and pulled myself up from the couch, there was a definite awkward silence. The scent of our passionate kiss hung around us, for a bit, like a tear after a sad Beatles song.

  But by the time we’d gotten into the car and were on our way back to my house, we were jabbering away with excitement about the upcoming debut of Crossland Drama’s version of Dracula.

  We’d already seen the sets the scenery department had created and everyone agreed they were just fabulous. Somewhere the director had found an enthusiastic Dracula fan who not only had donated money, but genuine Victorian furniture and the effect on us all was like putting us in a time travel device and sending us back a century. Costumes had just come in, and we’d done a full dress rehearsal that had not only pleased the director, but had been a lot of fun.

  “I heard Mr. Crawley is thinking about asking us all to clear out extra time on your schedules,” I said, as the Rolls slid through the chilly Maryland night.

  “For extra performances to satisfy the demands of play lovers everywhere?” Emory said with a trace of Southern-fried sarcasm in his voice.

  “Championship competitions!” I said excitedly.

  “Are we Off-Broadway bound?”

  “Aren’t we already Off-Broadway,” I shot back.

  “Way off Broadway, I’m afraid.”

  I laughed.

  I was relieved. Just immensely relieved.

  We’d gotten through that awkward after-kiss spell, and now things were friendly and ebullient again. More than that, I detected a real improvement in our relationship A true ease. We had something we shared now, and not just Lucy and Count Dracula .

  We had that incredible kiss!

  We continued to chatter on amiably and before I knew it, we were in front of my house.

  “Well, Lucy,” said Emory. “I believe this is our stop.”

  “Thanks Count.”

  “Shall I walk you to the door?”

  “What a gentleman! Sure!”

  ` We got out.

  Abruptly, outside I felt awkward and nervous again. I rather wished I had demurred on the walk in. We spent it in silence.

  My breath misted into the night air. I could hear my heart hammering in my chest again.

  We got up to the door and I turned around.

  Emory was standing a full two steps behind me.

  “Rebecca,” he said. “Thank you so much for coming and meeting my Daddy tonight. It was an honor to have you in my home.”

  He was extending his hand to shake mine.

  I looked down with surprise at his hand. The gesture totally broke the tension that was lifting up in me.

  “Oh you silly,” I said. I stepped forward, reached up and gave him a big hug and a kiss on his cheek. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Okay,” he said, looking sheepish and a little befuddled.

  He stepped back, waved and took off, his footsteps clattering on the sidewalk as he hustled off to his waiting car and chauffeur.

  I let myself in with my key and was happy to see that my parents were not in bed.

  I put my coat away in the coat closet and hurried back to my bedroom. I turned the radio on to the classical station, and just lay in bed a while, my head swimming.

  The station was playing Chopin.

  I WAS RUNNING in the woods.

  I was running in the dark woods. Wind whipped tree branches around me. A moon shown full as clouds parted above.

  There was something behind me, chasing me.

  My breaths were hot my lungs. I turned around but could see nothing in the darkness. I heard growling and howling, growling and howling of anger and hunger.

  Suddenly, it seemed my feet froze. I felt as though they were moving through quicksand. I looked down and saw that the ground fog was swirling all the way up to my thighs.

  I ran smack into something and stopped.

  I looked up and saw that it was Emory Clarke in his Dracula cape.

  “Good evening, Rebecca,” he said. “You kissed me, my dear. Now I get to kiss you ---”

  He leaned toward me and I glimpsed a flash of ivory fangs in the moonlight

  ...AND I WOKE.

  I was in darkness. I felt disoriented. A piece of classical music I didn’ know was droning from the radio.

  Almost immediately, I was aware of the pain.

  I grabbed at my neck. The pain was severe, cutting into me, penetrating up.

  “Oww,” I said. “Owww.”

  I had that headache again too. It was fierce and pounding.

  Hand still to my neck, I struggled up to sit at the edge of the beside, trying to catch my breath, as though I’d really been running, as though that dream had been real.

  “What’s going on?” I mumbled.

  I got up and I staggered down the hall.

  What was wrong with me, I thought groggily.

  What is wrong with my neck?

  I needed some aspirin. I desperately needed something for the pain that I was feeling.

  I turned on the light switch.

  I was surprised how much it hurt my eyes.

  “Oh gee,” I said. “Fell asleep. Fell asleep in my clothes.”

  I was in fact still wearing my turtleneck. The girl who looked back at me from the mirror was rumpled and frousled, her eyes squinty. I’d worn just a touch of mascara and other make up last night, and it was smeared.

  My neck hurt.

  My neck throbbed.

  I pulled down my turtleneck sweater to see what was going on there.

  I gasped.

  On the side my neck, like two small lanced pimples, symmetrically placed were blood-red puncture holes.

  Bite marks!

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “HAROLD.”

  “Yes?”

  “Doing much today?”

  “It’s Saturday. Saturday morning I hang out and read. You know that.”

  I clutched the phone like a lifeline.

  “Harold,” I whispered into it. “I’ve got to come over. I’ve got to talk to you.”

  .”Oh man! You’ve gotten to be such a drama queen. Ever since you got that part. What’s wrong now! I’m reading the new Keith Laumer, and it’s way good.”

  “I promise you,” I said. “It’s serious!”

  “Can’t we just talk on the phone?”

  “Okay,” said Harold, resignation filling his voice. “Come over and I’ll make some sandwiches for lunch.”

  “And tea. Lots and lots of strong tea.”

  “Sure. I can arrange that.”

  I put the phone back into the cradle and heaved a sigh and a shudder.

  I went back into the bathroom. My bathrobe was bunched up around my neck. I opened it.

  The bite marks were still there. The swelling had gone done quite a bit, and the pain was gone. But yes, there they were two bite marks.

  Not only had the pain gone, but, physically, I actually felt pretty good. My mental state, of course, was quite another matter.

  Last night after I’d taken a look at the marks, I’d just taken some aspirin and stumbled back into bed. I was convinced that I was having a nightmare. I got into some pajamas, and buried myself in sheets and blankets and pillows, a blessed numbness flowing over me.

  It hadn’t been long before I was asleep. Not, fortunately, a sleep of nightmares, but a deep and dreamless sleep.

  When I awoke, I felt great.

 
; A feeling of peace and contentment covered me like a full length blanket. Often as not when I wake up, I’m a mess. I feel rotten, tired and cranky. I just want to throw my alarm clock at the world, tell it to go away and bury my head in my pillow. But not this morning. Now, I felt peaceful and refreshed, as though I’d slept the sleep of a baby.

  Until, that is, I’d remembered about my neck.

  I’d groaned. I felt a pang of fear.

  A shiver went through me.

  But the sun was coming in through my drapes, and I still physically felt fine. No, better than fine. I laid back in my bed, my arms tight around my pillow, and other thoughts swept through me.

  I thought about that kiss.

  I thought about my lips on Emory’s, and how it felt. I thought about my body against his. I had never felt anything like that before, and now it wasn’t so much a memory, as a flashback. It was overwhelming, enveloping. Something so immersive, I lost myself again.

  That was, until I felt a little stir of pain in my neck again.

  “Oh my God,” I said.

  And so to that mirror again, and so ascertaining the state of the tooth marks upon my neck.

  After talking to Harold, I hurried back to the bathroom, where I took a long, hot shower. Then, bundled back up in my voluminous robe, its hood up and concealing the gaping holes in my neck, I hurried back to my room and closeted myself.

  “What’s wrong with me!” I muttered to myself as I sat at my desk, gazing at a pile of gothic romances. “I should be stricken with dread and horror. I should be quaking in my loafers!”

  I went to the window and stared out.

  The day was not gloomy.

  In fact, the day was rather -- nice.

  It was one of those winter days after a snow storm when the air is clear and clean. Any clouds were long gone. A benign sun hung high in the sky. A family of robins were swooping about in the walnut and elm trees in the back yard. I opened the window and took a deep breath of the cold air. It was deeply full of the rich smell of wet soil and of the humps of snow that marched off into the woods at the beyond the neighboring house. Somehow, amidst the snow, I could taste the promise of spring, I could smell the seeds promising to sprout in April.