Dead Perfect

He bypassed a young couple holding hands, so caught up in each other he doubted either of them would have noticed had he chosen one or both of them.

He moved past an old man sitting on the sidewalk in front of a seedy tavern, as well as several boisterous young men who reeked of booze and drugs.

Moving on, he passed a rookie cop walking a lonely beat.

And then he saw her, a middle-aged woman about to enter a single-story house at the end of a quiet street. Falling into step beside her, he mesmerized her with a glance and pulled her into the shadows beside the building. Taking her into his embrace, he took that which he needed to sustain his existence, and left her standing there, bewildered but unhurt, his memory erased from her mind.

With his thirst sated for the moment, he turned toward home, his thoughts on the woman who waited for him there. What would she think of his proposition? Dare he tell her the truth of what he was? In five hundred years, no one who had discovered the truth of his existence had lived to tell the tale. He remembered all too well the way his kind had been hunted in centuries past, hordes of frightened people storming through cemeteries, digging up the graves of suspected vampires, mutilating the corpses.

These days, people were generally too civilized to believe in the supernatural, although vampire hunters still plied their trade. He knew it would be a mistake to tell Shannah the truth. Why, then, did he feel compelled to do so? And why, of all the people he had known through the centuries, was he tempted to work the Dark Trick upon her? It was nothing to him whether she lived or died, yet the thought of her death filled him with an aching sadness he had not felt in hundreds of years.

Perhaps it was just that he had been alone for too long. How often had he seen young lovers entwined and yearned for the closeness and the intimacy they shared? How often had he hungered, not for blood, but for the love of a woman? For one kiss, freely given?

Eager to see Shannah again, he quickened his pace, relishing the touch of the night air on his face.

Lights burned in the downstairs windows of the house. He grunted softly, thinking how odd it looked. Before Shannah, the house had always been dark when he returned. With his preternatural vision, he had no need for artificial lighting.

No one had ever left a light burning for him before. A smile curved his lips as he hurried up the long narrow drive. It faded as he opened the front door. He didn’t have to enter the house to know that it was empty. To know that she had gone.

Pulling the door closed behind him, he went out into the night once more, his senses reaching out, his head lifting to sniff an errant breeze for her scent. He found it quickly, followed it easily, much like a hungry wolf on the trail of fresh blood.

It led him to a four-story red brick apartment building on the far side of town.

Sitting on the sofa clad in a pair of comfy old sweats and a pair of heavy socks, Shannah reached for the book she had stolen from Mr. Dark, if that was indeed his real name. Somehow, she doubted it. Not that it mattered, she thought as she opened the book.

She had fled his house as though pursued by demons. Keeping to the shadows, his robe clutched tightly around her, she had made her way home, praying that she would remain unobserved, especially by the police. It would have been difficult indeed to explain what she was doing running through the streets clad in nothing but a robe and her underwear.

Thankfully, she hadn’t seen anyone, and no one had seen her. She wondered now if she had overreacted. He had been nothing but kind to her since she showed up at his front door.

With a shake of her head, she turned her attention back to the book. There was a poem on the first page.

In the darkness, I dream of light

Under Sol, I beg for night

Each dawn I die, at dusk reborn

Eternal shadow

Alone

Forlorn

Though short, the aching loneliness inherent in the words touched a chord deep within her.

Had he written the poem as well as the book? He didn’t seem like the poetic type, she thought as she turned the page.

In minutes, she forgot everything but the story unfolding in front of her. Never before had she read anything that captured her attention so quickly. His writing was compelling, riveting, so visual she could see every scene unfolding in her mind as though she was there in the midst of the story, living each adventure with the vampire and his lady love.

She was so captivated that she was hardly aware of time passing. She was completely caught up in the plot. She was the heroine, in love with a man who was not a man at all, and her life was in danger…

She practically jumped out of her skin when someone knocked on the door. Frowning, she wondered who it could be. She wasn’t expecting company; no one except her parents knew where she lived.

The knock came again, louder and more insistent. Rising, the book clutched in one hand, she went to the door. “Who is it?”

She knew the answer even before she heard the deep timbre of his voice.

“Ronan.”

“What do you want?” She glanced at the book in her hand. Was he here because she had taken it without permission?

“I want to see you, of course. Why else would I be here?”

Heart pounding, she stared at the door. Would he go away if she refused to let him in? Or would he break down the door? She could scream for help, but she knew no one would come.

“Shannah, open the damn door and let me in.”

She wasn’t sure she wanted to, but her hand seemed to move of its own volition and she found herself staring up into his face. Hearing the barely suppressed anger in his voice, she had expected him to barge in and…well, she wasn’t sure just what she expected him to do. The one thing she hadn’t expected was for him to ask her permission, but that was exactly what he did.

“May I come in?” he asked. He was dressed all in black again—shirt, pants, boots, duster.

She nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. Retreating into the room, she sat down on the sofa again, the book clutched to her breast. If only she had a hero who would fly in and rescue her, like the one in the story!

He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. His presence seemed to shrink her small apartment. She imagined she could feel it closing in around her. His gaze swept over her, the force of it almost tangible.

“Are you enjoying the book?” His voice was low, almost hypnotic. It moved over her, a feather-light touch underscored with steel.

“Y-yes,” she stammered. “V-very much.” She held it out to him. “I was going to return it, and your robe, when I was through.”

“Keep it. Why did you run away?”