many injuries he’d seen in his lifetime, I figured.
“This will hurt,” he warned me.
It was hard to imagine anything that wouldn’t.
His arms slid under me before I had time to get afraid. I screamed, but it was a weak effort.
“Quick,” said a voice urgently.
“We’re going back in the woods out of sight,” Bill said, cradling my body to him as if it weighed nothing.
Was he going to bury me back there, out of sight? After he’d just rescued me from the Rats? I almost didn’t care.
It was only a small relief when he laid me down on a carpet of pine needles in the darkness of the woods. In the distance, I could see the glow of the light in the parking lot. I felt my hair trickling blood, and I felt the pain of my broken arm and the agony of deep bruises, but what was most frightening was what I didn’t feel.
I didn’t feel my legs.
My abdomen felt full, heavy. The phrase “internal bleeding” lodged in my thoughts, such as they were.
“You will die unless you do as I say,” Bill told me.
“Sorry, don’t want to be a vampire,” I said, and my voice was weak and thready.
“No, you won’t be,” he said more gently. “You’ll heal. Quickly. I have a cure. But you have to be willing.”
“Then trot out the cure,” I whispered. “I’m going.” I could feel the pull the grayness was exerting on me.
In the little part of my mind that was still receiving signals from the world, I heard Bill grunt as if he’d been hurt. Then something was pressed up against my mouth.
“Drink,” he said.
I tried to stick out my tongue, managed. He was bleeding, squeezing to encourage the flow of blood from his wrist into my mouth. I gagged. But I wanted to live. I forced myself to swallow. And swallow again.
Suddenly the blood tasted good, salty, the stuff of life. My unbroken arm rose, my hand clamped the vampire’s wrist to my mouth. I felt better with every swallow. And after a minute, I drifted off to sleep.
When I woke up, I was still in the woods, still lying on the ground. Someone was stretched out beside me; it was the vampire. I could see his glow. I could feel his tongue moving on my head. He was licking my head wound. I could hardly begrudge him.
“Do I taste different from other people?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said in a thick voice. “What are you?”
It was the third time he’d asked. Third time’s the charm, Gran always said.
“Hey, I’m not dead,” I said. I suddenly remembered I’d expected to check out for good. I wiggled my arm, the one that had been broken. It was weak, but it wasn’t flopping any longer. I could feel my legs, and I wiggled them, too. I breathed in and out experimentally and was pleased with the resulting mild ache. I struggled to sit up. That proved to be quite an effort, but not an impossibility. It was like my first fever-free day after I’d had pneumonia as a kid. Feeble but blissful. I was aware I’d survived something awful.
Before I finished straightening, he’d put his arms under me and cradled me to him. He leaned back against a tree. I felt very comfortable sitting on his lap, my head against his chest.
“What I am, is telepathic,” I said. “I can hear people’s thoughts.”
“Even mine?” He sounded merely curious.
“No. That’s why I like you so much,” I said, floating on a sea of pinkish well-being. I couldn’t seem to be bothered with camouflaging my thoughts.
I felt his chest rumble as he laughed. The laugh was a little rusty.
“I can’t hear you at all,” I blathered on, my voice dreamy. “You have no idea how peaceful that is. After a lifetime of blah, blah, blah, to hear . . . nothing.”
“How do you manage going out with men? With men your age, their only thought is still surely how to get you into bed.”
“Well, I don’t. Manage. And frankly, at any age, I think their goal is get a woman in bed. I don’t date. Everyone thinks I’m crazy, you know, because I can’t tell them the truth; which is, that I’m driven crazy by all these thoughts, all these heads. I had a few dates when I started working at the bar, guys who hadn’t heard about me. But it was the same as always. You can’t concentrate on being comfortable with a guy, or getting