The Silver Kiss

“Your damn kisses.” He shoved a piece of paper at her.

She read the childlike prose, gradually becoming puzzled. “But, Simon, it says nothing about me.”

“No, but he’s a spiteful sort. It would be like him to let me think you’re safe.”

He’s paranoid, that’s all, she thought. He’s reading things into it. And he did tell me. He couldn’t go ahead without telling me, after all, even if he is desperate.

“You’ve got to put faith in yourself sometime,” she said tenderly, despite the lump in her throat. “The chance is no greater than it was before, and I couldn’t get more frightened.”

At midnight she walked down the quiet street, dressed to lure.

Simon was out there, she knew, watching her, keeping her safe. She had to believe he could keep her safe. Yet her palms were sweating, and her mouth was dry. She had hung the crucifix Lorraine had given her around her neck, under her sweater. It made her feel better, no matter what Simon said. It didn’t hurt to cover all bases.

Her stockinged legs were cold, but she hugged her jacket around her and forced herself to walk slowly. She wanted to give him ample opportunity to spot her.

Zoë knew when Christopher started to follow her, though she never heard him. The texture of the air changed. Perhaps the part of Simon left in her blood could sense it.

She walked toward the park under a star-crazed, clear, cold night, hardly daring to breathe.

14

Simon

Simon watched Zoë from the shadows. He slipped from tree, to bush, to fence, but always he kept his distance.

How pretty her legs are, he thought. How beautiful her long dark hair—like Bess in that poem about the highwayman. Yet he dropped that thought quickly, remembering how Bess died to save her love. It made him feel uncomfortable. She awoke poetry in him, though. “She walks in beauty,” he whispered. He smiled. A car drove by slowly, and he faded into a mist.

She turned the corner, and he drifted across a lawn to follow. He felt fuzzy, as he always did when he dissolved. It was hard to maintain a purpose that way. I can’t allow myself to drift tonight, he decided, and reached out his mind to draw his scattered molecules together, seamlessly condensing into a pale boy in graceful motion behind a trellis fence.

Then he knew Christopher was there, ahead of him. He couldn’t see the boy at first, and he started to panic. Then a movement in the trees caught his eye—a bat, up where she wouldn’t see. Bats used sonar. He cursed silently and drifted apart again. It wouldn’t catch him now. I hope he doesn’t stay that way long, Simon thought as the numb apathy began to build.

He sensed Zoë’s pace quickening. She knows. Slow down. He’ll guess. Slow down. The last thought echoed around him, and Simon began to slow himself, started to drift. Ah, the sparkling night. Why don’t I drift up to the stars? No. I must follow. Follow who? The girl. What girl? I think I shall scatter and sparkle like frost. No, a voice of reason called distantly. Christopher, hissed a quiet memory. The warning ran from molecule to molecule and pulled them together with the same purpose. It molded him back into a boy.

He crouched by a parked Volvo. Around the bumper he could see the park across the street. Two boys passed, smoking cigarettes and punching each other with the blows of comrades. They disappeared around the corner. He had gotten ahead of Zoë, but he could see her coming up the other side of the street. He could only hope that Christopher had not sensed the suspicious mist drifting out of tune with the night.

If Zoë could lead Christopher into the park, all would be well. If she could only get to the other side of the pit, stop as if dreaming, to lure him out and entice him to approach her. “Oh, poor little boy,” she could say, and call him across the trap, to his death.

A dark form flittered beneath the streetlights over Zoë’s head. She didn’t look up, but Simon saw her flinch at the shadow cast on the sidewalk. Don’t look. Don’t let him know. Her fists were clenched tight, but she didn’t even glance. Simon could hear the pipings Zoë couldn’t, the high-pitched squeal that bounced through the air and felt out shapes and movement in the night. He dared not move, lest he attract Christopher.

Then the bat was ahead of Zoë. It dipped around a tree and disappeared. And, at the park, a small boy stepped from the bushes out onto the sidewalk. He carried a knapsack over his shoulder. A teddy bear poked its head out from under an unbuckled strap. The boy waited for Zoë with anticipation on his face.

Simon bared his teeth and growled softly at the back of his throat. Damn his eyes. He couldn’t wait any longer? He couldn’t follow her farther? Did he know?

Zoë reached the park, and Christopher walked up to her, the knapsack bumping his thigh. Zoë looked startled. Don’t give it away, Simon begged. He’s just a boy to you, remember. He raised a hand to his mouth and worried a nail. Damn! Damn! Damn!

They talked. Simon could not quite hear what they said, even with ears acutely tuned for the hunt. It was too far to make out words, and it nearly drove him crazy. Perhaps Christopher’s words gave him away. Perhaps he did know her. Zoë wouldn’t be able to tell, but Simon could—if only he could hear.

Zoë walked into the the park with Christopher, offering her hand. Good girl. Brave girl. Her smile looked strained to him, but Simon suspected Christopher did not care enough about humans to tell a false smile from a true.

Simon followed carefully at a distance as they traveled the path to the center of the park. It was the right direction, and he dared to hope. But they stopped in the dark of a wide-spreading tree. Not here, Simon pleaded silently. Don’t stop here. The moonlight didn’t penetrate the shadows, and he could only see shady forms. Don’t look into his eyes, he thought. Remember what I said. He’ll have you, if you do that. Get out of there. Get out. Yet they stayed there in the dark, as if in eternity, and Simon wanted to howl.

This was all wrong; he had to go to her. He took the risk and eased himself through the night. If I can get close, I can jump him, he thought.

The figures were clearer the closer he got, and he saw the small form hold up something to the girl. Then he was close enough to hear the chirping voice. “This is Teddy. He’s lost too. Kiss Teddy and make it better.”

Zoë bent to the child, closer and closer into the reach of those greedy hands. He would grasp her hair, expose her throat—he would have her. Simon tensed to spring.

“Oh, what a lovely bear,” Zoë cried, and snatched the toy from Christopher. He tottered back a step, and Simon held motionless in shock. What was she doing?