The Last Vampire - By Christopher Pike Page 0,11
says.
"Yes. I was trained by a master marksman."
He pulls out the last arrow and almost falls to the ground as it comes loose. "You should be in the Olympics."
I shrug as we walk back toward the goal posts. "I have no interest," I say.
Seymour nods. "I feel the same way about mathematics. I'm great at it, but it bores me to death."
"What does interest you?"
"Writing."
"What do you like to write?"
"I don't know yet. The strange and unusual fascinates me." He pauses. "I read a lot of horror books. Do you like horror?"
"Yes." I start to make a joke of his question, something about how close it is to my heart, but a feeling of deja vu sweeps over me. The feeling startles me, for I haven't had it in centuries. The sensation is intense; I put a hand to my head to steady myself, while searching for the source of it. Seymour reaches out to help, and once more I feel the sickness flowing beneath his skin. I am not sure of the nature of his disease, but I have a good idea what it is.
"Are you all right?" he asks me.
"Yes." A cool film of sweat has gathered on my forehead, and I wipe it away. My sweat is clear, not tinted pink, as it becomes when I drink large quantities of human blood. The sun burns bright in the sky arid I lower my head. Seymour continues to watch me. Suddenly I feel as if he has come so close to me his body is actually overlapping mine. Like the deja vu, I do not like the sensation. I wonder if I have developed a greater sensitivity to the sun. I have not been out like this, at midday, in many years.
"I feel as if I've met you before," he says softly, puzzled.
"I feel the same way," I say honestly, the truth of the matter finally striking me. Already I have said how I can sense emotions, and that is true. The ability came to me slowly as the centuries of my life passed. At first I assumed it was because of my intense observatory faculties, and I still feel that is part of it. Yet I can sense a person's feelings even without studying them closely, and the ability baffles me to this day because it suggests a sense that is nonphysical, which I am not yet ready to accept.
I am not alone with this ability. Over time I have met the occasional human who was as sensitive as I.
Indeed, I have killed several of them because they alone could sense what I was, or rather, what I was not. Not human. Something else, they would tell their friends, something dangerous. I killed them, but I did not want to because they alone could understand me. I sense now that Seymour is one of these humans. The feeling is further confirmed when once more I pick up my bow and arrow and aim at the target. For my vision is distracted. Mr. Castro stands in the distance behind the school gymnasium, talking to a perky blond. Talking and touching--obviously making a move on the young thing. The teacher is perhaps three hundred yards distant, but for me, with a bow in my strong arms, he is within range. As I toy with my next arrow, I think that I can shoot him in the chest and no one will know--or believe--that it was really me who killed him. I can make it so that even Seymour doesn't see where the arrow flies. Killing Mr. Riley two nights earlier has awakened in me the desire to kill again. Truly, violence does beget violence, at least for a vampire--nothing quite satisfies as does the sight of blood, except for the taste of it.
I slip the arrow into the bow.
My eyes narrow.
Castro strokes the girl's hair..
Yet out of the comer of my eye I notice Seymour watching me.
Seeing what? Sensing what? The blood fever in me?
Perhaps. His next word is revealing.
"Don't," he says.
My aim wavers. I am amazed. Seymour knows I am thinking about killing Castro! Who is this Seymour, I ask myself? I lower my bow and look over at him. I have to ask.
"Don't what?" I say.
His eyes, magnified behind their glasses, stare at me. "You don't want to shoot anybody."
I laugh out loud, although his remark chills me. "What makes you think I want to shoot somebody?"
He smiles and relaxes a notch. My innocent tone has done