The Last Vampire - By Christopher Pike Page 0,37

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.
Chapter 8
Seymour takes me to my car and tries to follow me back to Mayfair. But I speed away at a hundred miles an hour. He is not insulted, I'm sure. I warned him I'm in a hurry.

I go to my mansion by the sea. I have not described it before because to me a house is a house. I do not fall in love with them as do some mortals. The house is on twenty acres of property, at the top of a wooded yard that reaches from my front porch all the way down to the rocky shore. The driveway is narrow and winding, mostly hidden. The house itself is mainly brick, Tudor style, unusual for this part of the country. There are three stories; the top one has a wide view of the sea and coast. There are many rooms, fireplaces and such, but I do most of my living in the living room, even though it has wide skylights that I have yet to board up. I do not need a lot of space to be happy, although I have lived in mansions or castles since the Middle Ages. I could be quite happy living in a box. I say that as a joke.

My tastes in furniture are varied. At present I surround myself with lots of wood: the chairs, the tables, the cabinets. I sleep on a bed, not in a coffin, a grand mahogany affair with a black lace canopy. I have gathered art over the centuries and have a vast and expensive collection of paintings and sculptures in Europe, but none of it in America. I have gone through phases where art is important to me, but I am not in one now. Still, I have a piano wherever I go. I play almost every day, and with my speed and agility, I am the most accomplished pianist in the world. But I seldom write music, not because I am not creative, but because my melodies and songs are invariably sad. I do not know why--I do not think of myself as a sad vampire.

Tonight, though, I am an anxious vampire, and it has been centuries since I felt the emotion. I do not like it. I hurry into my home and change and then rush back out to my car. My concern is for Ray. If it is Yaksha after me, and I have little doubt now, then he may try to get to me through Ray. It seems a logical course to me based on the fact that Yaksha probably first became aware of me through Ray's father. I now suspect Yaksha has been observing me since I first

visited Mr. Riley's office. But why he didn't attack immediately, I don't know. Maybe he wanted to study the enemy he hadn't seen for so long, to probe for weaknesses. Yet Yaksha, more than any living or nonliving being, already knows where I am vulnerable.

I am still in shock that he is alive.

I drive to Ray's house and leap to the front door. I half expect to find him gone, abducted. For a moment I consider not ringing the doorbell, but to just barge in. I have to remind myself that Ray is not Seymour, capable of accepting anything that comes along. I knock on the door.

Pat surprises me when she answers.

The girlfriend is not happy to see me.

"What are you doing here?" Pat demands.

"I have come to see Ray." Pat must have called Ray's house while he was at my place, probably several times. She must have called not long after he came home. He