The Last Vampire (The Last Vampire #1)

The Last Vampire (The Last Vampire #1) Page 7

The body I bury beneath the stream. It is a favorite place of mine. Police seldom look under running water. I hear them in the distance, the law, at the gas station, maybe two black and whites. They have a shoot-out with the boys in the limos. The boys win. I hear them tear away at high speed. They are clever. I believe they will get away.

Yet if I want them, I will have them later.

More police can be heard approaching. I decide to exit the forest the back way. I jog through the trees, setting cross-country records. Six miles later finds me at a closed gas station on a deserted road. There is a phone booth. I think of calling Seymour Dorsten, my archery buddy. It is a mad thought. I would do better to keep running till I find a busier road, a few parked cars. I can hot-wire any car in less than a minute. I am soaked through with blood. It would be madness to involve Seymour in this night's dirty business. He might tell his mother. Yet I want him involved. I trust the little guy. I don't know why.

Information gives me his number. I call. He answers on the second ring and sounds alert. "Seymour," I say. "This is your new friend."

"Lara." He is pleased. "What are you doing? It's four in the morning."

"I have a little problem I need your help with." I check the street sign. "I am at a gas station on Pinecone Ave. I am six miles inland from Seaside, maybe seven, due east of the city. I need you to come get me. I need you to bring a change of clothing for me: pants and a sweatshirt. You must come immediately and tell no one what you're doing. Are your parents awake?"

"No."

"What are you doing awake?"

"How did you know I was awake?"

"I'm psychic," I say.

"I was having a dream about you. I just woke up from it minutes ago."

"You can tell me about it later. Will you come?"

"Yes. I know where you're talking about. Is it a Shell station? It's the only one on that road."

"Yes. Good boy. Hurry. Don't let your parents hear you leave."

"Why do you need the change of clothes?"

"You'll understand when you see me."

Seymour arrives a little over an hour later. He is shocked at my appearance, as well he should be. My hair is the color of a volcano at sunset. He stops the car and jumps out.

"What happened to you?" he asks.

"A few people tried to rough me up, but I got away. I don't want to say any more than that. Where are the clothes?"

"Wow." He doesn't take his eyes off me as he reaches back into the front seat. He has brought me blue jeans and a white T-shirt and two different sweaters: one green, the other black. I will wear the black one. I begin to strip right in front of him. The boy has driven far and deserves a thrill. "Lara," he says, simply amazed.

"I am not shy." I unbutton my pants and wiggle them down. "Do you have a towel or some kind of old cloth in the car?"

"Yes. You want to wipe off some of the blood?"

"Yes. Get it for me please."

He gives me a stained dish towel. Now I am completely naked, the sweat on my skin sending off faint whiffs of steam in the cold night air. I clean my hair as best I can and wipe the blood from my breasts. Finally I reach for the clothes he has brought.

"Are you sure you don't want to call the police?" he asks.

"I am sure." I pull the T-shirt on first.

Seymour chuckles. "You must have had a bow and a few arrows with you when they caught up with you."

"I was armed." I finish dressing, putting my boots back on, and bundle my clothes together. "Wait here a second. I have to get rid of these."

I bury the clothes in the trees, but before I do so I remove my car keys and Slim's wallet from my pants pocket. I am back with Seymour in ten minutes. He is behind the wheel with the engine on, the heater up high. In his frail condition he must get cold easily. I climb in beside him.

"My car is in Seaside, not far from the pier," I say. "Can you take me there?"

"Sure." He puts the car in gear. We head north. "What made you call me?"

"Your sexy mind."

He laughs. "You knew I was the only one in town who wouldn't immediately report you to the authorities."

"I am serious about you keeping this private."

"Oh, I will."

I smile and pat his leg. "I know you will. Besides your sexy mind, I called you because I know you don't object to a little stroll on the wild side from time to time."

He eyes me through his thick glasses. "You may be a little wild even for my tastes. You can't even tell me a little something about what happened?"

"You would have trouble believing the truth."

He shakes his head. "Not after this dream I had about you. It was amazing."

"Tell me about it."

"I dreamed you were on a battlefield and a whole army of demons was approaching you from every direction. They had all kinds of weapons: axes and swords and hammers. Their faces were hideous. They were jeering loudly, anxious to rip you to shreds. Where you were standing was a bit above the rest of the field, on a grassy knoll. But the rest of the field was a reddish dust color, as if it were a plain on Mars. The sky was filled with smoke. There was only you against thousands. It looked hopeless. But you were not afraid. You were dressed like an exotic goddess. Your chest was covered with silver mail. You had a jeweled sword in your right hand, emerald earrings set in gold that chimed as you slowly surveyed the army around you. A peacock feather stood in your braided hair, and you wore tall boots made of fresh hide. They dripped with blood. You smiled as the front rank of the demons went to strike you. You raised your sword. Then you stuck out your tongue."

"My tongue?"

"Yeah. This was the scary part. Your tongue was real long. It was purple, bloody--it looked as if you had taken a bite or two out of it. When you stuck it out, all the demons froze and acted afraid. Then you made this sound at the back of your throat. It's hard to

describe. It was a loud sound, nasal. It echoed across the whole battlefield, and as it reached the ear of each demon, he toppled over dead."

"Wow," I say. The part about the tongue naturally reminds me of the yakshini. There is now no question in my mind. Seymour is supernaturally sensitive to emotional states. More than that he seems to have linked up with me somehow, formed an intuitive bond with me. Certainly, I have with him. I am mystified. I cannot logically understand my great affection for him. It is not the same as my love for Ray, my passion for the son of Riley. For me, Seymour is like a younger brother, a son even. In five thousand years I have never had a child except for Lalita. I would like to play with this young man. "Is there more?" I ask.

"Yes," he says. "But you might not want to hear this part. It's pretty gross."

"I do not gross out easily."

"After seeing you tonight, I imagine you don't. When all the demons were dead, you began to stride about the battlefield. Sometimes you would step on a demon's head and it would be crushed and the brains inside would ooze out. Sometimes you would stop and cut off the head of a demon. You accumulated a number of heads. You were making a necklace out of them. Other times you would find a demon that wasn't entirely dead. These you would grab by the throat and raise up to your mouth." He pauses for

effect. "You would open their necks with your nails and drink their blood."

"Doesn't sound so bad." He continues to amaze me. His dream is like a metaphor for the entire night. "Anything else?"

"One last thing. When you were through walking about, and stood still, the flesh of the demons began to decay. In seconds they were nothing but dust and crumbling bones. Then the sky began to darken more. There was something in the sky, some kind of huge bird, circling above you. It disturbed you. You raised your sword to it and let out that weird sound again. But the bird kept circling, getting lower and lower. You were afraid of it. It did not seem you could stop it."

"That hasn't happened yet," I whisper.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. What kind of bird was it?"

"I can't be sure."

"Was it a vulture?"

"Maybe." He frowns. "Yeah, I think it was." He gives me an uneasy look. "You don't like vultures?"

"They are symbolic of a forsaken ending."

"I didn't know that. Who told you that?"

"Experience." I sit silent with my eyes closed for a few minutes. Seymour knows not to disturb me. The boy saw the present, I think, why couldn't he see the future? Yaksha is circling me, closer and closer. My old tricks will stop him. My strength, my speed, were

never a match for his. The night is almost over. The day will soon be. But for us the day is the night, the time to rest, to hide, to despair. I know in my heart that Yaksha is not far.

Yet Krishna said I would have his grace if I obeyed him.

And I have. But what did he promise Yaksha? The same?

I do not believe so.

The scriptures say the Lord is mischievous.

I think Krishna told him the opposite.

I open my eyes. I stare at the road in front. "Are you afraid of dying, Seymour?"

He speaks carefully. "Why do you ask?"

"You have AIDS. You know it."

He sucks in a breath. "How did you know?"

I shrug. "I know things. You know things as well. How did you catch it? You don't seem gay. You were staring at me too hard when I was naked."

"You have an awesome body."

"Thank you."

He nods. "I am HIV positive. I suppose I have full-blown AIDS. I have the symptoms: fatigue; skin cancer, bouts of parasitic pneumonia. But I've been feeling good the last few weeks. Do I look that bad?"

"You look awesome. But sick."

He shakes his head. "I was in a car crash five years ago. Ruptured my spleen. I was with an uncle. He died, but I got to the hospital in time. They operated on me and gave me two pints of blood. It was after the

test for HIV was routine with all donated blood, but I guess this batch slipped through the cracks." He shrugs. "So I'm another statistic. Is that why you asked about fear of dying?"

"It was one reason."

"I am afraid. I think anybody would be lying if he said he wasn't afraid of death. But I try not to think about it. I'm alive now. There are things I want to do ..."

"Stories you want to write," I interrupt.

"Yes."

I reach over and touch his arm. "Would you write a story about me someday?"

"What should I write?"

"Whatever comes to mind. Don't think about it too much. Just whatever is there, write it down."

He smiles. "Will you read it if I write it?"

I take my hand back and relax into the seat. My eyes close again; I feel suddenly weary. I am not mortal, at least I didn't think I was until tonight. Yet now I feel vulnerable. I am as afraid of death as everyone else.

"If I get the chance," I say.