night of all nights; the night that separated us, forever. Christmas Eve, when the world seems full of promise; the night I told Lucy I loved her, and that I'd love her forever, forever and a day. I told her there was nothing else in the world I wanted as much as her, and I meant it, then. It was the wolf within that made me a liar. That's why I come here every Christmas Eve, to the oldest bar in the world . . . where sometimes stories can still end in lovers' meeting.
I don't have to show up, but I do, because I promised her I'd love her forever and a day.
The clock struck midnight, the revellers cheered the coming of Christmas Day, and Lucy softly and silently faded away. Gone again, for another year.
When the change first takes you, it's only too easy to mistake one passion for another.
You never forget your first victim.
Chapter Five
The Night Things Changed
Dana Cameron
A professional archaeologist specializing in colonial New England, Dana Cameron is also the author of the Emma Fielding archaeology mysteries. The sixth book, Ashes and Bones, won the 2007 Anthony for Best Paperback Original. Her short story "The Lords of Misrule," featuring eighteenth-century London sleuth Margaret Chase, was also nominated for an Anthony for Best Short Story. Having once upon a time lived in Salem, Massachusetts (the setting of this story), she now lives in nearby Beverly with her husband and a demanding cat. You can learn more about Dana's work at her website, www.danacameron.com.
I pounded up the stairs to the roof and slammed open the door; the wintry air lashed my face. My sister the vampire was stretched out on her stomach, nearly naked, under the pale December sun.
She wasn't moving. I knew from her phone call the news was bad, but . . .
"Claudia?" I swallowed; my mouth was dry. "Claud?"
She stirred and opened her eyes blearily. Her face was drawn, she moved stiffly. Claudia relaxed when she saw it was me, fastened the bikini top behind her neck, then sat up.
I turned away, blushing. "Aw, jeez, Claud. Do you have to?"
"What? I'm covered. Gerry, take a pill. No one can see me up here. We picked the place for that very reason."
She was right; evergreen shrubs and dead, leafy vines - a forest of green in the summer - sheltered her place from every side, leaving the roof open to the sky. Despite the crust of snow on the ground, she wasn't even shivering.
It was such a small bikini, though. I kept quiet: she'd think I was being a prude.
"I don't even need to wear a bathing suit when I'm alone," she said, reading my face.
"Yeah, you do, as long as I'm your brother." I am a prude; sue me. No guy likes to think about his sister being ogled, especially not when she looked good enough to model that bikini. And I wished she'd cut her long dark hair. It was just too dangerous in a fight.
I changed the topic. "I got your message. I was worried."
She nodded; her shoulders sagging. "A bad one, this morning. It means work for us."
Things had been so quiet lately, it had to happen. "Tell me."
"It was in the emergency room." Claudia "happens" to go through the emergency room a lot, trolling for trouble. "This guy was in for sutures, a cut on his arm he said he got slipping on ice. He was giving Eileen a hard time, and I got a whiff of him. I asked her to send him to me for 'post-trauma assessment.'"
Claudia glanced at me; there were dark smudges under her eyes. She looked beat. "He barged into my office, got angry when I told him he had to wait his turn. Very aggressive, all id, defensive as Hell. Maybe there's a hurt little kid somewhere under all that armor, but he's being led by a really thuggish protector-self."
I hate when she talks like a shrink, but it's how she gets things straight in her own head. "Was he big?"
She nodded. "And he uses it. He doesn't mind threatening people, liked the idea he was scaring me. And then . . . when I stood up to him, he took a swing at me."
I nodded, bristling. She was obviously okay, but I hated hearing this kind of stuff. It was part of our job, and I knew Claudia could take care of herself, but it still chafed. Call me overprotective. "And?"