a beached crustacean, he scuttled backward on his rear, until his back struck the opposite wall. Quickly, I dematerialized, then rematerialized, crouched on the floor, an arm wrapped tightly around his throat.
Full circle, a symmetry of existence. A thousand years ago, the fraternity brother was me, and I was Francois, staring with contempt as an immature vampire begged for his life.
"Please," he whimpered.
"Monster!" I spat. My voice sounded low and gravelly, but as deeply buried as my consciousness was at that very moment, I knew that Francois had chosen to let me live because he knew most creatures are not inherently good or evil. Through instruction, the more primal urges can be sufficiently tempered.
"Why should I not destroy you?"
His eyes opened wide. "Money! I can get you money. Lots of money! My father's filthy rich! He can send you a check tomorrow. You're that cab driver. Say the word, and you won't have to drive a cab ever again."
Without a word, I pressed both hands against the sides of his head and slowly twisted, ignoring his screams, kneeling hard against his abdomen to keep his body still, twisting until bones crackled, snapped and flesh tore. The body slipped to the floor with a muffled thud, agitating dust into the air. A severed head sat in my hands, its lifeless eyes staring at me blankly, accusingly.
Three dead bodies littered the floor. Three more people dead at my hands. A shriek passed my lips as the events of the past few months passed kaleidoscope-like before my eyes.
Because death courses through my body, must death follow me everywhere I travel? Must these hands take life when they could just as easily create rather than destroy?
The woman moaned, interrupting my musing. Quickly, I rushed to her side, finding her jugular with my fingers, searching for a pulse. Her heart continued to beat, weak but steady. Had she enough blood to live?
A single drop of blood struck my hand, falling from a small cut where Bobo had tried to rip open my neck. Blood. Life for the living. Life of a different variety, but life nonetheless. If I so chose, her existence could continue.
I made quick study of the woman, ripping open the manacles on her wrists and ankles. She reacted not. Dilated eyes stared at the ceiling, blinking rapidly, her breathing shallow.
Her blood-spattered flesh was pale, but her wounds were all superficial; no arteries were severed, and the punctures had all knit with coagulation.
They had tasted her, but had not yet taken her life's blood. Shewould live, but needed immediate medical attention. Before departing to notify the authorities, I surveyed the carnage left behind. Perhaps, Francois would have chosen this course of action. Or perhaps not. Perhaps, the opportunity might someday present itself where I can ask Francois what he would have done.
However, these concerns were quickly supplanted by some unfinished business. One question remained: Wheredoes one buy powdered essence of datura?
****
You are indeed correct; the plump fellow had made reference to the "Gifts of the Magi," and yes, there was a store by that name a mere two blocks from my abode. The irony of this situation was hauntingly apparent, that I had scoured the entire city for vampires, only to find the source just under my nose at the Gifts of the Magi Occult Shoppe. Suddenly, it no longer seemed odd that the store was never open during the daylight - at least according to the sign in the front window.
At exactly Midnight the next night, I paid a visit to the store, though circumventing the front door, instead materializing in the rear, the stench of mildew nearly making me sneeze. I studied the books as I moved toward the front counter. They were mostly hardcovers with Latin titles whose translations were far more ominous than the books were actually dangerous.
The man at the sales desk looked up only when I stood in front of him. He was short and slight with long, thin, scraggly hair, a patchy beard and little round glasses. An ankh hung over his chest. The man looked about forty, but certainly this was untrue.
"I want to buy some powdered essence of datura," I spat, staring malevolently at the shopkeeper.
He smiled, showing me the sharp points of his fangs; there was no need for deception at this point. "So, you're the one who murdered my children," he said, his accent British, specifically Cornish. "I've been expecting you."
"Murder, you say? I think not. It is certainly not murder to