Supernatural/Horror/Thriller

Synopsis
A century-old vampire discovers a young woman who resembles his long-lost love and tries to become human again so he can claim her for his bride. But he doesn't realize there's a reckoning with the dark side where supernatural elements are concerned.

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             SHADOW WALKING
                By Cara Swann

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Chapter One

I am a master criminal, a jewel thief to be precise -- and quite capable at my trade, if I do say so. You see, I have extraordinary powers that enable me to escape detection, that allow me to never be suspected by the law enforcement community.

I am a vampire, and as such, I am empowered with talents suited to this lifestyle; after all, I can scale buildings, become a raven, and pass as a shadow to mortals...slipping easily in and out of mansions, locked museums...taking jewels, art masterpieces, cash if available, then going my merry way. But don't take this as a sign of superior cunning; it is simply a means of livelihood and survival.

My name? Nathaniel Porter, forever and eternally thirty-five years of age. In human years, I'm one-hundred-fifty...but then, to look at my alabaster skin, the broad featured face, coal-black hair and eyes, the cleft chin and muscular build over six-feet, you'd think I'm the picture of a healthy, fit man in the prime of life.

And in some ways, I am in my prime; I dress well, blending in with the current fashions, although I must carefully conceal my skin with makeup...but I'm not healthy. Not unless I kill each and every night, drinking the blood of humans and cattle, which sustains and gives me vigor, vitality. It's an insatiable hunger, a curse.

But then, I never asked for this damned existence; it befell me without warning. Now I live in relative comfort near Gatlinburg, Tennessee -- a chalet in the remote mountains, my cellar harboring a satin-lined casket which I need by day. By night...well, I roam and kill; I stalk the streets of Gatlinburg, looking for drug addicts, sick homeless people who are ripe with human blood, tragic in their ignorance.

However, I was once poor: In the early 1800s, I was a wretch, living in poverty...a shack in these hills, the majestic Blue Ridge Mountains inhabited then by people of Irish/Scotch descent --too proud for help, too ignorant to change their ways.

My parents, both descended from Scotch ancestors, were poor and as one of ten children, I was acutely aware of our impoverished existence. Born in 1831, I arrived on Christmas Day...and the folklore rumors of my curse colored my mortal life. A seventh son of a seventh son born on Christmas Day...this was thought to be a curse, according to hill legend.

Back in those days, legend was everything; I grew up under the shadow of a curse, hearing whispered worries from my parents, other children...but I had no idea it would all come true.

Yet now, right this moment, I am walking the Saturday night streets of modern-day Gatlinburg, a gentle spring evening, an earlier rain shower having misted the sidewalks, giving a shiny glow, a hazy sweetness to the air. Tourist rush along, enthralled by the shops, laughing, talking...and I watch, I listen, I observe.

Around nine, I go into a quaint tavern, sit in the back as the candlelight flickers on the table, and order red wine -- I never drink of course, but it looks as if I do. And I resume my musings about my past...

When I was young, I helped my papa; we worked the land, hunted for bear, shot deer... tried to subsist on those natural bounties. Then as I entered my twenties, I felt the stirring of wanderlust; I wanted to escape the seclusive hills, travel...but it was unthinkable to those who lived and loved in the mountains. I was rooted in the mire of poverty and clan.

I might never have left, but for the Civil War in 1861, when I was thirty. I joined the Confederates and went to war...against the clannish hillfolks' advice.

Later, in 1862, my six brothers also joined up; we were all separated during those bloody years. I sometimes thought I'd die, and wanted to occasionally, but one thing kept me going -- I'd been home once, in 1863, and met Sarah Cutter; she was only seventeen, but I knew immediately she'd be the love of my life.

So I did my duty, fought fearlessly, and came home a hero -- at least to Sarah. In 1865, when Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox, April 9th, leaving the South defeated, I returned to the hills. All I really cared about was getting back to the same mountains I'd longed to escape. I'd found nothing in my travels, nothing save war, bloodshed, dying and death -- the wasteful, rotting stench filled me with dread, with a desperate feeling no one could understand. Maybe it was a premonition of the future...

The only good thing about it all was that I'd learned to read from the better-educated soldiers. It had given me a desire for knowledge, higher learning -- yet, once home that spring, all I wanted was Sarah.

But I discovered Sarah was ill -- gravely ill. I went to her mama's small cabin in the piney woods, such magnificent spring greenery painting the hillsides, I was lost in the natural splendor of rebirth, renewal. Yet death greeted me at first sight of my beloved Sarah -- she lay on a crude bed, her pale face framed by wavy black hair, damp with sweat, a feverish gleam in her blue eyes. Scarlet fever, I knew instantly, a plague upon the mountain folk.

And later that night, she died in my arms. Gone forever, my hopes, my dreams, my love. I died a little too, and afterward, I couldn't seem to rid myself of the sorrow, the sense of loss. For it was an overwhelming loss: We'd never made love, never consummated our passionate attraction to one another. Not that there hadn't been other girls in my younger days with whom I had sex; but it was casual sex, and Sarah...was different, unlike any other woman, worth waiting for.

Her loss turned me into a wasted shell of a man at age thirty-five; I was empty, lost. I wandered the mountains, supposedly hunting for deer, for game to help feed my mama and widowed sisters (my brothers all died in the war; papa died of scarlet fever). I tried to forget Sarah, but I felt so alone, so utterly alienated. Her death, the war atrocities I'd witnessed, the horror, it slowly eroded my will to live. I lay sleepless through the nights, falling into nightmares when I dozed.

Mama had often told me about an old man, a hermit who lived high atop Wilder Mountain. He was legendary...a recluse, said to be possessed of the Devil, an evil man with supernatural powers. His name was Zackery O'Sullivan; he must have been 100 years old, but no one knew his age for sure. It was said he was born the son of a Cherokee Indian woman and an Irish man.

One night when I was unable to sleep, I got up and walked the woods restlessly; I came upon the cemetery where Sarah was buried. A full moon was overhead, casting shadows as a breeze moved in the trees on this warm summer night. I stood near the box-shaped church, seeing the steeple aimed at the distant, glittering stars.

Eventually, I made my way to Sarah's grave, standing near the primitive stone marker. Tears stung my eyes, anger and rage roiling at the injustice of her loss; I felt cheated, defeated by death and destruction.

And then I heard a husky laugh, as if someone was mocking my sorrow! I spun around to see an old man, an ancient-looking crone, hunched over a rustic cane, still snickering maliciously.

Enraged, I had a sudden urge to beat him into the ground; to let out my pent-up anger and violence....but managed to control myself, realizing this was an old, frail man, perhaps senile.

But when his voice came in the dark, it was crisp, lucid, strong: "Nathaniel, I've been watching you and waiting for this moment."

Stunned, I asked, "Who are you?"

Dark laughter. "Zackery O'Sullivan, the Devil himself."

I had a sudden flashback to the death-stench, the overwhelming sense that this was something sinister like the war, like all the killings I'd witnessed, even participated in sometimes.

"You are destined to be saved from Sarah's fate -- indeed, from death itself." He lifted the crooked cane, pointed it and snickered with evil relish.

I wanted to flee, but couldn't. My legs were powerless, my whole body paralyzed. He approached me, and underneath his wiry gray hair, I saw skeletal bones, the sunken black eyes in his narrow face, an evil glare...bewildering, bewitching me into a hypnotic stupor. I didn't know what was happening as he came even closer, moved to my side...and then, I felt a piercing pain in my neck...

When I awoke, it was almost dawn; I was in his cabin high atop Wilder Mountain. The ancient man crouched over me, he was still draining blood out of my neck, whispering hoarsely as I weakened, "Now, now...not long till sunrise. I must go...you will sleep the long sleep now."

And I did fall into a dreamless slumber, exhausted, weakened and diminished beyond comprehension.

The next night, he told me he was giving me the gift of immortality...that I'd live forever, a legacy to the dark side. It was my destiny, he professed; it was the curse I'd been born with.

Thinking back now, sitting here in this tavern, I almost die again, remembering that loss of human feeling, the way he drained me, drained me to the point of death and then left me, alone. He was over two-hundred years old, and had said he wanted to go on to a different plane of existence...so, he set himself afire, burning right before my eyes!

Leaving me nothing, no knowledge of what I'd become.

I soon learned though  --  as soon as the hunger for blood overcame me --I hunted and devoured cattle, wild animals, deer, raccoons...anything I could catch through my new animal cunning and keen physical instincts. I had been transformed from human into something inhuman, more animal than mortal.

I lived there, hiding in the cabin, sleeping inside the rough-hewn coffin safely inside the deep, damp cellar by day. And I haunted my family, watching from the trees, never contacting them. I didn't want them to know what I'd become; and too, I feared I might be tempted to taste their blood, to take their lives.

Years passed; my family died, I was truly alone then. Finally I ventured outside the secluded mountains, a loner, but desperate for company of some kind, any kind -- human or inhuman. I remembered the warmth of being human, and yearned for the touch, the contact of human companionship. I was lonely in my solitary existence, so I fell upon the criminal arts to afford me a lavish lifestyle --more opportunity to seduce humans into my orbit.

I even sought knowledge in libraries, reading ceaselessly about history, philosophy, art, politics...always learning, my mind sharpened by a powerful new intellect. With practiced effort, I overcame my backwoods origins, developing slowly into a cultured gentleman.

And now, here I sit, getting that urgent pulsing in my veins that means I must kill. I look over the tavern, tempted by mortal beings. Nearly time to go shadow walking.

But first I must settle my criminal business for the night, so I pay the tab and go out into the wet, sweet-scented streets of Gatlinburg.

         End Chapter One


      Chapter Two

I knew my destination because I'd carefully studied Clarence Millborne, watching him at the finer restaurants, seated nearby, my enhanced hearing enabling me to listen to him discuss his business details with prospective clients. The Millbournes were from Mobile, Alabama -- ship builders. Clarence was heir to the family wealth of several successful generations. He owned an exclusive manor house in the Smoky Mountains for his working vacations, as well as to accommodate his family.

I walked through the streets, humanity like an intoxicating beverage all around me; the people bustled along, some stopping to stare into the shop windows, or admire street artist's work. It was a veritable paradise for myself -- my heightened sense of smell honing in on the succulent flesh and blood scents drifting on the night wind.

The many lights glittered in the raindrops, and I experienced the blood-lust again; but once again, I postponed it. I got into my Jaguar and drove to the edge of the city, then headed up along a winding mountain road.

Darkness descended once away from the bright city lights; the road was deserted, and my cat-like eyes adjusted to the blackness. After a short drive, I pulled over onto an abandoned hiking trail, parking the Jaguar well out of sight. Then I emerged into the primeval forest; it embraced me like an old friend as I leaned against the bark of a tulip tree.

I breathed deeply, concentrating my gaze on the treetops, willing my anatomy into acceleration for the transformation; soon, it was happening -- my arms and legs seemed to melt, my heart stopped, then began to beat fast, erratic...my skin started to burn as I crouched low to the earthen floor of wet straw. I closed my eyes, began to spin rapidly, faster and faster...and then, I was suddenly a raven, taking wing, soaring up, up into the forest, over the treetops now, looking back down with piercing vision to see the dark woods below, a ribbon of road as I sailed toward the large brick manor house.

I landed gracefully, quietly on the rooftop and remained motionless, concentrating beyond thought as I again transformed myself back into human form. It had taken me fifty years to learn the strength and scope of my powers; now, they served me well.

I crept to the nearby attic door, and easily disengaged the lock. Though dark inside, I could see with cat-like vision, and crept soundlessly down the wood stairs to the top floor of bedrooms. Down a hallway, descending more stairs, and finally into the second floor utility closet. Clever, hiding a vault here. I slipped inside, bent down, listened to the tumblers with my precise hearing....stopping at the almost inaudible 'click' for the right combination. When I opened it, my eyes fell on the precious jewels -- and, a bonus, cash!

I cleaned it out, put the stuff inside a small knapsack I carried (convenient to hold in my raven's beak) then crept back up the stairs, heading down the long corridor between bedrooms.

Just as I was about to reach the attic door, I noticed a soft glow beneath one bedroom door. I thought only Clarence and his wife were in town; but it looked like another bedroom was occupied.

Curiously, I was drawn to that bedroom, and listened for movement inside. Nothing. I eased open the door, quietly cautious.

A dim nightlight suffused the huge room of antique furnishings from the 18th Century: poster bed, steamer trunk, fringed lampshades. Entranced by the sensation of falling back into another time period, my eyes fell on the young woman lying in the immense bed. Upon the silk sheets, her sheer royal-blue gown was twisted, revealing the supple flesh of long, long shapely legs. I moved inside, easing closer...trembling from the heat of her body, the heady human scent. Long wavy black hair cascaded over pillows, and she moaned, as if in a dream.

I was very close to her now, peering down into her face; she moaned again, and turned toward me. For a moment I lost my breath, seeing a long-ago image that had suddenly appeared as if from oblivion. The fragile heart-shaped face, the wide-spaced blue eyes, generous mouth and pale, pale skin...long black wavy hair. Sarah had materialized before my very eyes!

I almost gasped, but stifled the impulse. She now lay silently, a gentle rise and fall of her chest, only the flutter of eyelids in a disturbed dream. The human scent of her, the overwhelming need in myself for a kill, had me reeling.

I left quickly, closing the door behind me and fleeing as if from the Devil. Once outside, I spun in the tight circle, becoming the raven. Back at the Jaguar, I put the cash and jewelry in the trunk, then drove back into Gatlinburg, emerging to shadow walk the streets.

I saw my victim standing alone on a corner, smoking a cigarette stub: a bum, a wino, elderly. I had a penchant for older men, perhaps as revenge against Zackery, and what he'd done to me.

I used my charm; he came willingly into my car, listened to me tell him that I helped homeless people...and then, in the deep, dark woods I drank him to death. No, it wasn't a sensual experience, nor lustful gratification. It was merely an absolute need that I fulfilled -- but it was dull indeed compared to sexual hunger and gratification. All the books, fiction or folklore that I'd read, made the kill so sensual; it was not! It was an utterly violent, vicious and calculated act that was to me like food to a starving human. That, and nothing else.

The blood sustained me as food does a human, but the kill did not compare to remembered passion, the sexual pleasure I'd known as a human being. Not at all.

As I drove back to my chalet, I felt repulsed as always. I despised myself and what I'd become, what I did each and every night. An animal, a scavenger that preyed on living mortals. Condemned to immortality and shadow walking, a vile, depraved being.

Once inside the thick-walled cellar, I felt the usual nausea that accompanied my kill; but then, sitting down, relaxing, it gradually passed. In my replete afterglow, I recalled the woman -- so like Sarah that burning tears filled my sad eyes.

Many, many times I'd visualized her over the long, lonely years of this torment; and always I wondered had she lived if I could have avoided this fate? Or was it destined by my cursed birth, the ritual of dark forces at work?

At last, I saw the unmistakable pink light in the small east cellar window; sunrise was close now. I crept to the coffin, feeling my body tense and stiffen as it always did.

The satin was cool, and as I closed the coffin lid I had one last thought as the ever-deepening paralysis began: IF ONLY I WERE MORTAL AGAIN, I'D WIN THE SLEEPING BEAUTY I'D GLIMPSED IN THAT BEDROOM!

               End Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Sunday night, after I'd stalked nearby cattle and killed, I came back to the chalet, and morosely brooded. I had no desire to socialize with mortals, nor to charm them, engage them in my charade as a human. True, in the past I'd made a game of it --although I never killed those I met as acquaintances or thought of as friends. At times it had been a struggle not to take them, but I'd thus far not committed that dastardly deed.

The chalet was pleasing to the eye -- a rocked fortress almost buried in the mountainside, it overlooked a wilderness of virgin forest, raging mountain streams; a primitive beauty awaited my nightly vigil beneath moonglow and starlight. I'd have preferred to see it in daylight, but that was, of course, impossible.

There are six rooms furnished with contemporary furniture, the den stocked with walls of books, a fireplace; a modest, modern kitchenette, three cozy bedrooms. No guest ever came here but what I asked them to spend the night...although they usually declined. I have a competent middle-age lady who cleans weekly, trustworthy and not the nosy kind, Mrs. Sethton.

And now, sitting in the leather recliner before a crackling fire, I look at the books piled before me. Texts on witchcraft, black magic, devil worship and satanic cults -- their rituals and rites, Indian shamans, various tribal beliefs. Lounging in my velvet robe, I feel mentally alert and stimulated from the recent kill.

Distractedly, I rub my chin, realizing I hadn't shaved and the stubby bristle is rough beneath my touch. I'd been preoccupied with a stunning thought: What if, through some mystical, magical dark rite, I could become mortal again?

Admittedly, the sight of the beautiful young woman had inspired this idea, which was probably absurd. And yet, as I recalled all my reading material through the years, the curiosity as to how and why I became a vampire, I'd located threads of Satanism, voodoo, witchcraft connected to vampirism -- going all the way back to ancient Greece where they believed that vrukalakos were creatures able to revive the dead and feast upon the living. This creature was usually a male or female with red hair, birthmarks or blue eyes (rare for Greeks) or those born on Christmas Day, a seventh son (as I was) and even those with harelips or other deformities.

I'd discovered that in Greece, around 1717, lots of vampires were thought to be on the island of Santorini, now called Thera. A veritable conclave of the walking dead!

Then in another book, I'd been amazed at the many divergent ideas of how one became a vampire. In central Europe, a dead body scratched by a black cat before the funeral was thought to have made a vampire. In China, a corpse was guarded the night before burial lest a cat or dog jump over the body and transform it into a vampire. Greeks and Romans believed in a female vampire called lamia who seduced men in order to suck their blood.

I'd laughed ironically at the Bram Stoker novel, DRACULA, since he seemed to have duplicated my image: I'd sought to become a cultured gent through the pursuit of education and longed eternally for a lost love. I'd wanted desperately to mold my vampirism into a suitable persona of man.

More recently, Anne Rice had hit on a theme of decadence and sensuality with her novels --all fascinating and entertaining, but thoroughly fictional. The evil was almost tangible in her work, and the sexual, sensual kill was played to the hilt. And yet, it was oh so very wrong: for me, the kill is NOT sensual, nothing remotely like sex as I remembered it being as a human. Also, I'd never known another of my kind, only Zackary.

I reread THE BOOK OF SHADOWS, a wealth of information on satanic rituals and rites, wondering again if I could ever return to being mortal?

As the night passed, I searched myself deeply on this issue: Even IF I ever had the opportunity, would or could I exchange immortality for mere mortality? Not to know the end of the world? The fate of humanity? Or perhaps find redemption for my soul? So many, many questions to ponder upon...and yet, the allure of that exquisite woman kept me in a state of anxiety, expectation.

Finally, I slung on my black leather pants and jacket, went out into the cool night air. I looked at a starry sky and quarter moon overhead, then took the Jaguar to Gatlinburg, on up the mountain to the manor house, where I parked out of sight.

Again, the transformation to a raven, a flight to the rooftop and stealthily down into her bedroom, where she slept peacefully, lying there like an angel, so still, so lovely. Vaguely, I felt a long-ago emotion: tenderness mingled with passionate yearning. She was wearing a sheer white silk gown, her warm skin a sensual temptation, the wavy hair falling over the pillow, her full lips slightly parted.

I quietly turned away, and in the dim glow of the nightlight, I plundered through her dresser, finding a small black book. In it were addresses, phone numbers and names...hers at the front: Cansada Louisa Millbourne, age 23. She had to be the only daughter of Clarence Millbourne.

I replaced the book, and went back to the bed, gazing at her intensely. Again that familiar tenderness engulfed me, and I longed for her... maybe for Sarah too, and what I'd lost so long ago.

She moved her arm, then turned away from me; I hurriedly left, making a speedy trip back to my chalet. Cansada...yes, a beautiful name for a beautiful woman.

When I closed the coffin lid, I vowed to find someone  -- a witch, a sorcerer, an Indian shaman...someone, anyone versed in the dark rites to help me accomplish my dream. I MUST return to a mortal being so I could claim the lovely Cansada Louisa.

        End Chapter Three


Chapter Four

I awoke Monday night, and immediately set to work. First, without regard to appearance, I went out to kill cattle, and then returned to the chalet.

Yes, the flush of blood rushed through me, but at best I looked like a pale imitation of a man: my dark eyes sunken, a pallor that gave me a sick, slick look, my skin almost plastic-smooth.

After shaving, and trimming my hair, I took out a tube of expensive makeup, a dark tint that would give me an almost tan look. I carefully applied it, and then put on my tailor-made silk suit and tie. Much more presentable!

It was a starlit April night, and I hurried to the Jaguar, driving into Gatlinburg with hopes of dining early enough so that I might glimpse Cansada with her parents at the restaurant Clarence frequented.

Fortunately, as I walked into the elegant establishment, my eyes fell upon Clarence, his wife Beatrice and Cansada at a nearby table. Awake and animated, vibrant with life, Cansada was mesmerizing; I couldn't disguise my naked adoration, and was sure others noticed it as I gazed at her intensely.

Finally the young hostess asked, "May I seat you with your friends?"

I realized she thought I was acquainted with the Millbournes, and quickly said, "No, I'd like a table for one."

Seated at the table, I ordered red wine first, hoping to avoid the necessity of feigning to eat a meal. As my eyes wandered to Cansada, I felt an emotional current pull my whole being near her. She was wearing a shimmery aqua dress, lacy collar and pearls about her neck and ears, hair  caught up in a chignon. The glow of health radiated from her, and those blue, blue eyes danced with intelligence and emotion.

I could distinctly hear their conversation (my superior hearing being what it was) and their conversation was somewhat daunting. Clarence was talking heatedly about the theft of his money, saying how lucky it was the pearls had been in Cansada's room, not taken in the raid on the safe. The pearls she had on were a treasured family possession, handed down through generations.

I felt a pang of guilt; the jewelry I'd taken would be exchanged for money with a fence I knew in Nashville. I usually met him once monthly, with a considerable amount of jewels, art treasures and other stolen goods. It was a suitable arrangement, but I was uncomfortable now, knowing I'd taken something of Cansada's --a peculiarly alien feeling for me since I'd never experienced guilt for stealing.

As they ate and chatted, I listened attentively, but my eyes were riveted to the lovely Cansada; she had her mother's dark hair and her father's blue eyes. At last, she met my direct gaze across the short distance and smiled.

I nodded slightly, and held up my wine glass, as if to toast her.

She looked away, a demure blush on her translucent skin, the smile becoming shy, self-conscious.

There had been many women before her; I'd toyed with them, using all the charm I had mastered, and inevitably they seemed to fall in love with me. But then, I'd discard them -- never bleed them, or even allow myself the idea of killing a beautiful woman. Yet each and every time I'd remembered the human sensuality I no longer possessed; I yearned for that physical desire, the sexual lust and fulfillment of human union that haunted me from my mortal life. I often dreamt of it, but there was nothing in my life now to compare it to, and as the years passed, it faded to a dim memory.

Now, having met Cansada, seeing her here like this...I experienced the heady rush of being in love. The rare, exquisite tenderness, a longing not just for sexual lust, but something more...elusive and unattainable. I wanted my heart to awaken, I wanted that sweet surrender I'd known with Sarah...the love, the pure rapture of soulful touching through sexual intercourse. I'd been reborn, emotionally, physically...spiritually; and it had never happened before, not in all the long, lonely years of my vampirism.

When Clarence motioned for the check, I pushed back from my table and rose. I walked to their table, stood near him and said, "May I introduce myself? I'm Nathaniel Porter, and I believe you are Clarence Millbourne...the Millbournes of Mobile, correct?"

Taken off-guard, he looked at me sharply with his piercing blue eyes. "Yes. Excuse me, I don't believe we've met?"

"Actually, I'm a business associate of your ship-building enterprise. I couldn't help noticing you here, thought I'd introduce myself."

"Hm, Nathaniel Porter, don't believe your name sounds familiar. I usually know our associates..."  He stood, offering his hand politely, and I shook it firmly.

"I'm indirectly involved in another related business -- raw material for your ships. You wouldn't be aware of my name, I don't think."

"Yes, that explains it. Well, nice to meet you, Mr. Porter."

I had turned my attention to the women, said, "This is your wife and daughter?"

"Yes."

I bowed slightly to Beatrice, who blushed furiously but seemed delighted with my Old World manners; then I captured Cansada's eyes. "You are a very lovely young woman."

She did not move, did not take her eyes away. I brought all my hypnotic power to bear upon her, drawing her close, closer through my intense gaze...

Clarence said, "Sorry to be so rude, but we must be going, or we'll miss the flight to Alabama."

Cansada suddenly spoke up, "Father, I'd like to stay a few more days. I only arrived Saturday and..."

"I don't know..." he mumbled, glancing at my continuing gaze upon his daughter.

"Please. It's a nice time in the mountains, and I'm due a vacation." She held my stare, glancing only briefly at her father.

"I suppose that's so, you work hard in the business. A week here would do you good."

Beatrice stood, asking, "Cansada will you drive us to the airport then?"

Reluctantly, she turned away from me. "Sure, let's go."

They all now stood, and as Clarence went to pay for the meal, I suggested, "Perhaps you would give me the pleasure of your company later? We could attend the art show at the civic auditorium."

Smiling brightly, she said, "Around nine?"

"Yes, I'll meet you there."

"Fine. I should be back from the airport by then."

And they were gone.

I went out to my Jaguar, and drove to the auditorium to wait. Crowds still jostled along the streets, an endless parade of tourist out to see it all -- the shops, the shows, the rides, the spectacular tourist Mecca that Gatlinburg had become. I well remembered when it was no more than a small town, quaint and quiet.

I sat there, somberly reflecting on my past; it seemed a horrible nightmare from which I could never awaken. Time had passed quickly, and I'd been a mindless animal for the first fifty years, unaware of my unlimited talents. Then I'd taken leave of the mountains for the cities, seeing the changes, the progress, the ever-present lure of cultural advancement. Yearning for the man I'd never been as a human, I set out to become educated, cultured.

Except that I was still a vampire, and still had to kill. There had to be a way to change this, to choose mortality over immortality! And somehow I'd have to find that dark mystical passage into the flesh-and-blood human form.

One way or another, I'd find it or be damned!

           End Chapter Four



    Chapter Five

When Cansada pulled up beside me in the white BMW, I got out and helped her out of the car. She had let her hair down, the wavy mass now a jet of irresistible temptation and my hands reaching out impulsively before I got control of myself.

I finally took her hand as she stood there, the faint yellowish streetlamps illuminating her pearl-like skin. "Cansada..." I murmured, staring.

She gently moved away, sighing. "This is very strange, uh, Mr. Porter."

"Please call me Nathan."

"Nathan, you are a complete stranger, and yet...I...I feel I've known you always. Does that make sense to you?"

I said huskily, "We have known each other, maybe just not in this lifetime."

She laughed, a sound of tinkling bells. "Don't tell me you believe in reincarnation?"

I straightened, squaring my shoulders. "My dear, does anyone know the secrets of the universe?" I certainly didn't; and perhaps this was my beloved Sarah reborn? In truth though, it was her uncanny resemblance  to Sarah that stunned my senses.

Cansada looked deeply into my eyes; I brought all my hypnotic power to bear on her, could feel her falling, drowning in my gaze. "Um...you... there's...something in your eyes..."

I felt suddenly guilty for using my power, and broke her gaze, turned away.

"Mysteries of the universe...well, I don't know. Anyhow, about the art show..."

"Yes, we should be going inside now."

I turned to see tears glistening in her eyes, which shocked me, but I remained silent.

"I...I've changed my mind. I better be getting back to the house now..."

"If you don't mind my asking, what is troubling you, my dear?" Her distress cut through me; I felt a stab of human compassion -- something as alien as emotional response.

"God, I hate it when I do this!" She spun around, the silky dress trailing after her as she ran across the paved lot, stopping at a cement bench and sitting down.

I caught up to her, standing there as she deliberately avoided my probing gaze, asking, "Please, tell me what's wrong."

"Oh! I'm such a fool! I...I..." she stammered, stalling and unable to continue.

I sat down, allowing my hand to briefly touch her face, wipe away a tear. "Do not be afraid to confide, for I shall understand anything."

She looked at me, pain and frustration in her blue eyes. "I lost my head over a man, we were going to be married. And then...I found out...he...he was just using me, to get at my family's money."

It was inconceivable; this beautiful, alluring young woman used? I felt the depth of her heartbreak, the sadness and humiliation.

"He...Randy...we..." She shrugged her slender shoulders. "I thought he loved me, but father found out he had been embezzling from our company. He was an accountant with our business."

My theft of her father's safe flashed into my mind; momentarily I felt contrite. But then, I vowed as if reborn already, that I'd never steal again -- and somehow, I'd return their jewelry and cash.

As the silence lengthened between us, I looked at her and my heart stirred; it was an awakening, sitting that close to her, the exotic perfume and heat of her, an overwhelming emotional, erotic drowning in her sensuality.

At length she said, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have burdened you with this sad tale."

"I am honored you confided in me, but sorry you had to suffer from such callus treatment."

She said, "You see, after I got my degree in business from the University of Alabama, I returned to Mobile and father made me an executive with our company. I've worked so hard, but I still wasn't happy. Then Randy came along, and I thought I'd found the answer to being happy."

"Cansada, I know you're hurting right now, but it will fade with time. You're young, there will be others..."

"I know." She looked at me. "What about you, Nathan?"

I suddenly longed to tell her the truth, to tell her my existence was a living Hell... but I couldn't do that. Instead I lied, "I'm financially secure, have a satisfying career with my business. But I'm quite aware that what you sought in Randy is missing my own life too."

She nodded, silently looking off at the people drifting into the civic auditorium.

"Cansada...I feel a special bond with you, have from the first moment I saw you."

"In the restaurant, you mean?"

"Yes." But of course, I was thinking about seeing her in bed, asleep and remembering my Sarah. The resemblance was remarkable, even her voice had the same timbre, the same tinkling laughter too.

Back then, a day in the Smoky Mountain woods, Sarah and I sitting before a sparkling stream, my heart and body yearning for her...knowing I had to return to our regiment -- it all ran through my mind as I looked at Cansada. What would it take that I could possess her as I'd never possessed Sarah?

She suddenly laughed, said, "Oh, don't look so sad, I'll survive!"

I forced a smile, but it felt too tight.

She lifted her slender fingers to my face, touching my lips, looking into my eyes. I couldn't help using all my power to draw her to me...and tasted her full, wet lips there in the amber streetlamps. Her touch, that first warmth of her, the taste of her tender lips upon mine...it brought poignant pain, remembered passion but nothing, nothing now to my cold, dead body.

Agonizing! Past memory of physical arousal and my now-cold deadness; I wanted to come alive, to FEEL human sexual arousal, to take Cansada as only a mortal man could...

She moved away, sighing. "Nathan, what's wrong? Don't you find me desirable?"

How could I convey my frustration? I stood, pulled her to her feet. "Ah my dear, if you only knew! If you only knew how I want you..."

Slowly she drifted into my arms, and I held her against my stonelike body. I was a statue, unable to come alive with human passion, unable to become aroused -- my body a cold tomb.

Still, as we walked back to the cars, I made arrangements to meet her the next night -- for I could not resist the need to be with her, even if only to stir memories and feel vicariously a past passion.

She was willing to meet again, but seemed disappointed that my physical response to her was lacking. However, I vowed to myself I'd find a way to change that...

I returned to the chalet, and spent the remainder of the night studying. Once, I had heard local folktales of an ancient supernatural wisdom among the Cherokee Indians... their potent magic formulas of dark mysticism based on shamanism, a primitive religion which initially began with the Ural-Altaic peoples living between the Bering Strait and Scandinavia -- which later had been found to have flourished in varied forms among Eskimos and American Indians. It was the belief that good and evil come from ancestral spirits and gods and demons which can be influenced by the shaman or medicine man.

I would have to seek the Old One, the Indian Shaman who was said to have so-called visions of gods and demons, now isolated back in the mountains away from the prying eyes of modern tourists.

There had to be a way -- or else I would end my existence as had Zackery, my maker, my destroyer!

            End Chapter Five


    Chapter Six

Tuesday night I fulfilled my hunger, then drove to Cansada's home, arriving to find her waiting. She was gloriously alive, her fragile face flushed with warmth, tenderness. Seeing her was a pleasurable agony -- remembered passion haunting my memory with what I could not feel now.

I marveled at her physical attractiveness, the extraordinary blending of natural beauty with smoldering sexuality, the consummate woman. I had to restrain myself from touching her, wanting the human connection, the erotic sensation of human aliveness.

In the car, she chatted as we drove deeper into the mountains, unaware that I was aching with remembered passion; that her sweet voice, the tinkling laughter, were like daggers in my heart.

Impulsively, I stopped at a clearing high above Gatlinburg, cut off the engine. Spread out below us, beyond the sheer cliff edge, we could see the dazzling lights of the city; and farther off, the darkened outline of towering mountains.

I asked her, "Would you like to get out, see the city at night...a jewel of glittering beauty?"

"Yes," she replied softly, slipping out to meet me in front of the Jaquar.

We stood there, silently in awe. I moved imperceptibly closer, and she suddenly came into my arms, a sob escaping her. "Oh Nathan... I'm sorry about last night."

"Don't apologize. You were only being honest." I felt her tremble; her closeness diminished my alienation, and momentarily I felt almost human.

"Still, to have just blurted out my failed love affair, it was impulsive."

I looked into her upturned face, the moonlight playing shadows over her face, reflecting in her eyes. Slowly, oh so slowly I traced her lips and recalled my Sarah, the touch and taste so everlastingly real in my soul, my heart.

"What's wrong Nathan? You seem... distracted."

"Cansada, I have to tell you that you remind me of someone."

"Oh?"

"Long, long ago...a very special lady I once knew."

"And loved?" Her voice was a whisper.

I nodded.

She stiffened, said, "I don't want to be a stand-in!" The she abruptly pulled away, walking to the edge of the rock embankment.

I hurried to her, saying, "My dear, you misunderstand. You are unique, one of a kind..."

Her lips trembled, and she ran a hand nervously through her long wavy hair. "I thought that we, uh... that you were different."

"I am very different, more so than you'll ever comprehend. But in you, I see a physical resemblance to a long-ago love, one lost in the mists of time. Though you have her superficial traits of the flesh, it is your innermost sensitivity, a rare empathy and tenderness that most attracts me. And you are also refreshingly honest and open." I realized I meant it; she had grown genuine as we'd become acquainted; only her physical resemblance reminded me of Sarah.

She inched closer, looked into my eyes. "Nathan I feel so drawn to you. It's almost uncanny."

I took her in my arms, lowering my lips to hers, aching because I couldn't feel the sexual arousal I once knew, only an icy reminder of what I was: inhuman.

Pulling away, she asked, "What's wrong? Is it me? Or do you wish I were that other woman?"

I turned away, stalked along the cliff edge, stopping to stare out at the distant flickering lights below.

She followed, standing beside me wordlessly.

At length I said, "Cansada I want to love you, I want to desire you. I want that so deeply, it is killing me inside." And then I thought of a way to hold onto her should I become mortal again. "Before I can be with you in every way, the way you deserve to be loved, I must search within myself, know that I'm entirely free of that past love." I knew she felt I wasn't responding to her, had no physical/sexual spark in my frigid body -- and I could not allow her to doubt her own sexual attractiveness, for she was surely a sensual creature.

"I see. Well, that's understandable. I still feel a little confused about Randy. It's all so soon after my heartache."

"Yes, precisely. We each need some time alone, to think, put our pasts to rest. When I feel sure I'm capable of devoting my attention only to you, I'll come to Mobile. We'll talk, see each other...be able to...give one another a real chance, unencumbered by the past."

Cansada sighed, and moved into my arms again. "She must have been a special woman."

"Yes, she was."

I kissed her again, but the sensation of wanting past mortal arousal was so devastating, I moaned and pulled away, retreating.

Then, reluctantly, I drove her back to the manor house, both of us pensive about what our future might hold. If I could locate the Old One...there might be hope...

               End Chapter Six


Chapter Seven

For the next few weeks I walked the streets of Cherokee, North Carolina. This is the modern-day Cherokee Indian Reservation, and although commercialized for the tourist trade, it still retains an air of traditional Indian lore.

Discreetly, I asked about the Old One, a rumored medicine man who had deserted gaudy Cherokee City, moved back into the isolated mountains, dwelling in a cave, still practicing the Old Ways. The Indians were reluctant to discuss him, much less divulge his whereabouts.

I made little progress until I ran across a young Indian male dying of AIDs. He was gaunt, paper-white pale, withering away from the disease--a horror of this latest century.

As I talked with him, I promised a cure; yes, I could transfuse him, save him...one of my powers. He would not become a vampire, but he would gain the ability to commune with animals and nature, walk with a supernatural aura and be revered among his peoples.

I did it in deep darkness of midnight, healing his scars, giving him a renewed glow of health. And in return, he took me to the Old One.

The cave was remotely situated, and it took us three hours to reach it; I was fresh from the kill though, and my energy high that night.

The Old One was elderly, almost 90, and looked dazed, unaware of us. A wrinkled, withered Indian dressed in authentic eagle feathers and bear hides, his black eyes were a back-turned mirror of the past as he began to speak and I was struck by his alert mind. He could help me; he knew of  me; he recalled Zackery, and how he'd been made.

I was wild with questions, and posed many to him -- all leading to the revelation that Zackery was only able to perish AFTER making one of his kind to carry on the curse. A curse that went back hundreds of years in these mountains...

Depressed by this, I nevertheless begged him to help me, seek a way for me to become human again. He was stunned -- he'd never heard that request, ever. Of all the vampires from the dim, distant past, none ever sought to return to mortal flesh.

And then he told us to go, that he would meditate on it, take the mystical drug peyote, and ask the Spirits if this could be accomplished.

I went back to the chalet, and waited the month out, apprehensive, but eager for his news in May.

And when I saw him again, alone, he told me the evil I'd already committed, the killing, had damned my soul. But he did know a way to make me mortal again.

Before I was able to digest this fully, he told me that as a Shaman he could cast away the dark blood in myself, but it would create a cosmic disturbance which could someday require correction.

Crazed, almost delirious with the possibility of being human again, I cared nothing about upsetting cosmic influences; I only yearned for mortality again!

Thus, he went about his chanting, his rapturous weaving of magical powers in the dim light of a smoke-fire, consuming peyote and summoning evil spirits.

I listened, but couldn't decipher his mumbled, garbled chantings; all I was required to do was sit and listen, bring my hypnotic powers to the surface. In trancelike concentration, I watched the flickering firelight -- which hurt my eyes, singed my deadened skin.

I don't know exactly how it happened, because I somehow fell into an unconscious swoon, a death-sleep from which I could not awaken, hearing nothing.

When I was touched by the Shaman, I came to life -- as a HUMAN! The unmistakable feeling was there, the mortal being of live tingling flesh and coursing blood in my veins, my hands and skin warm, supple...the aches and pains of my cramped physical body all too real. Remarkably, I'd remained the same age in physical state, only thirty-five.

I was amazed, but appreciative, repeating my gratitude over and over to the Old One, who sat quietly impassive.

When I stood, he looked at me keenly, the wrinkled face and astute black eyes turning to me somberly.

"White man owe dark side now."

What did I care about the debt of this miracle? I was HUMAN, and that was all that mattered at the moment.

I watched my first sunrise in over one hundred fifty years the next morning, blissfully planning a trip to Mobile. Soon Cansada would lie in my arms, and we'd be able to make love!

Packing my suitcase, I felt only the slightest twinge of concern about the Shaman's mysterious reference to a debt -- not knowing that it would eventually be necessary to balance the delicate scales of dark and light cosmic forces.

             End Chapter Seven



    Chapter Eight

FREE, that's what I felt! Rising early, I packed the Jaguar, locked up my chalet, and in a rosy dawn-swirled mist from the mountains, I drove away from my home of one-hundred years.

The fresh air, the exhilaration of living in daylight after years of being condemned to darkness -- it was heady, and glorious! I saw the freshness of early morning through adoring, worshipful eyes; I watched the morning light turn from soft pink into glaring brightness, and looked directly at the sun, daring that once-feared slayer to harm me. Being immortal couldn't compare to this joy -- to be ALIVE as a human, although as brief as a candle in the wind, was my redemption!

I dined at wayside inns, charmed by the people who now seemed so simply human -- not arousing my hunger. And food, wine...delicious, delectable, a treat of appetizing meals more filling than blood feasts.

At night I stayed in motels, sleeping the sleep of mortals...dreaming and dreaming, which I never did in my vampire sleep. Over and over, I dreamt of Cansada...

I reveled in my mortality, becoming increasingly satiated by the sensuality of life itself, the very air I breathed now laden with lusty scents, the damp dewiness of morning, the heavy grassland in meadows, pollution of cities, noxious gases or stench of refuse -- all part of the human experience I craved.

June was scorching in the South; Alabama, a sweltering hotbed of sultry summer heat. I drove the backroads, sight-seeing and enjoying the rustic charms, in no hurry now that I would soon approach my destination.

By the weekend, I'd reached Mobile and felt that all-too-human anticipation, mingled with building anxiety. What if Cansada had forgotten me, or been claimed by another man? Even so, I realized my mortality was what I'd wanted most -- with or without Cansada.

Mobile is a throwback to the Old South, a gracious blend of the old and new, restored mansions and ante-bellum homes maintained in the Common Street Historic District. I drove through the streets, marveling at the blend of architectural styles, everything from 1850s Greek Revival, Italianate, Victorian, Neo-Classic and Bungalow in this well-preserved neighborhood.

But the massive old trees were the most impressive: such colossal live oaks, towering over the streets, outstretched branches linking to create arcades, almost defying time itself with their fantastic girth. Yes, the old trees were Mobile's proud heritage, protected heroically by concerned citizens.

The Millbourne home was not far from the Oakleigh Garden District, so I located it easily. Theirs was another restored house of Carpenter Gothic architecture, looming at the end of a broad tree-lined street. Cultivated floral gardens graced the manicured lawns, a verdant paradise, lush and fragrant.

I pulled into a circular drive, and stopped. The simple attire I wore, tailored pants and short-sleeve shirt, felt too casual now -- but I wanted to look human, not having to conceal my skin with extra clothing like I had for ages.

At the ornately carved oaken door, I rang the doorbell and a butler promptly arrived to see me inside. The crystal chandelier and winding staircase immediately caught my attention, but just as the butler asked who was calling, I saw Cansada appear near the top of the stairs.

She paused, her eyes widening at glimpsing who stood in the doorway. I wanted to rush to her, but restrained myself, merely staring at her radiant beauty. The long waist-length wavy black hair tumbled down her back, and she wore tight jeans with a skimpy t-shirt, presenting a womanly figure of sexual enticement.

"Nathan!" She screamed, running down the stairs, laughing and saying, "I don't believe it!"

"It's me," I said, opening my arms.

"But you didn't call, shame on you!" she chided, impishly grinning and tiptoeing to kiss me lightly on the cheek.

"Do you mind?"

"No." Her face turned serious, and she asked, "Does this mean you are finished thinking everything over?"

I nodded, rendered speechless by her very nearness -- feeling now the heat of passion like a burning need that had arisen from hell.

She laughed again, then took my hand. "Come into the parlor. Let's talk."

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"Of course not! I was just in my room reading, my parents are out for the evening." She looked to the poker-faced butler, dismissing him.

The parlor was lavishly decorated, expensive antiques imported from France, priceless artwork in gilded frames on the walls, potted palms, oriental rugs on the polished hardwood floors.

I followed her to the brocade sofa, sat down beside her and asked, "Have you been thinking of me?"

She ran a hand through her long hair, a familiar gesture, and said, "I've hardly thought of anything else!"

I wanted to kiss her, wanted the taste of her nectar, but I withheld that impulsive move. "Cansada my dear...I...I want to apologize for my reference about the past when we were last together. I now realize that although I loved Sarah, and although you may vaguely resemble her physically, she is part of the past. You are uniquely different -- you're earthy, sensual...more woman than I recall Sarah being."

She blushed, then put a finger to her lips.

I continued, "It's true, you are a sensual, voluptuous creature...yet sensitive, tenderly compassionate."

She stared at me a long moment, then asked, "Are you sure you're over Sarah -- the other woman?"

"Oh yes, quite certain. But what about Randy? Have you come to terms with that?"

For a brief second her face darkened; she smiled sadly. "Yes. I was hurt, but what made it worse was being humiliated."

I tipped up her chin, staring into those blue, blue pools of sensuality. "Are you positive?"

"Nathan...I think I could love you, given time."

So honest, so forthright -- no deception in her! How I ached to claim her, to have her in every way that would make her mine! I asked, "What about a drive, maybe dinner together?"

"Yes," she said, leaving to change while I pondered my great, good fortune. Soon I would possess her as I hadn't possessed a woman in over a century...

            End Chapter Eight



Chapter Nine

I waited patiently while Cansada went to change clothes, and then we drove to a seafood restaurant in Fairhope, a lovely place on the municipal pier. From our table beside the windows, we could see the lights reflected in bay waters, a marina and people fishing off the pier.

She was dressed in chiffon, swirls and swirls of sky-blue that enhanced her eyes and dark hair. I couldn't get enough of looking at her features, the high cheekbones, heart-shaped face, generous lips...a delicate mixture of fragility and femininity.

We had lobster, savory and succulent; then later, an after-dinner drink. Our conversation was all-encompassing, embracing anything and everything from the trivial to the sublime. Her voice was like porcelain bells, the tinkling laughter punctuating her words.

I thought I'd been in love with Sarah, but now I found myself overwhelmed by Cansada -- drawn into a passionate frenzy by her beauty and earthy sexuality. Several times during the evening, as our hands touched or eyes met, I'd experienced arousal, an uncontrollable reaction of lust and wild desire. I became aware of my erection, and felt confused, bewildered in that I could not prevent sexual stimulation; and this hadn't occurred in so long, I'd forgotten the raw, aching power of lustful craving.

Frankly, by the time I was driving her home, I was a bit frightened by my increasing arousal, my inability to control physical reactions caused by her presence. Oh yes, ah yes...it was wonderfully exciting...but nevertheless, uncomfortable.

As we were about to enter Mobile, she suddenly said, "Nathan, I don't want to go back home."

"Oh?"

"No. I want us to be alone together. Spend the night with each other."

Honesty and frankness were her trademarks, but this upset me. I felt my hands dampen, a terrible fear settling in my gut.

"Am I rushing you, Nathan?" She asked, giving me a demure look, a sexy glint in her eyes betraying the false modesty.

Was I ready for this involvement? When I'd left Gatlinburg, yes, I knew I wanted Cansada, sexually. I wanted to feel my manhood again, recapture the essence of being human..but was I ready this soon?

She moved slightly closer, touching my face. "I'm sorry if I seem too eager, it's just that I'm so attracted to you."

"Where shall we go? A motel?"

"No." She whispered huskily, "We'll drive to the beach cottage at Gulf Shores. It's unoccupied, I have a key."

And so we drove to Gulf Shores, talking and occasionally touching. I was experiencing the first stages of erotic arousal, my penis hard and throbbing, a sensation that was exceedingly impossible to ignore. It'd been so long since I'd felt the urgent intensity of erotic desire that I'd forgotten how painfully raw the need can become.

A full moon lay on the horizon of the ocean as we pulled up to the rustic beach cottage. I asked, "Are you sure, Cansada?"

She said nothing, only took my hand and led me into the darkened cottage, where we could see the ocean through the floor-length windows. It was there on a bed with satin sheets, hearing the rush and roar of waves coming ashore, that we knew abandonment of our inhibitions. We discovered mutual pleasures of the flesh, and my revived sexuality was at last fulfilled, allowed wild expression, total satisfaction.

At first I was trembling, awkward, afraid almost, but when Cansada undressed I lost my senses. I took her roughly, the urgency and white-hot need driving me beyond thoughtful reciprocation of her needs. It was hard, fast, a lusting we both felt, the pulsating penetration of my solid penis thrusting again and again into that utter oblivion of release, rejoicing in my reawakened manhood.

Later, our lovemaking was slow, oh so exquisitely, painstakingly slow and sensual...learning about our bodies, how to touch erotically, to bring and give pleasure, then building over and over to that forbidden threshold, retreating, returning again and again before the ultimate crescendo of volcanic eruption.

I was mindlessly engaged in my sexual self, oblivious to all else that entire, long lust-crazed night.

               End Chapter Nine


Chapter Ten

The next week was like something out of a fairy tale, or maybe an x-rated movie! We loved, we lusted, we consummated our long simmering sensuality repeatedly. We walked the beach by moonlight, tanned in the brilliant sunlight, dined out, ate in the cottage by candlelight; we indulged in intimate talk and slow, sultry sex. We had picnics, sailboat excursions, mingled with childish pranks and loving conversations. I never once regretted giving up immortality for this, this rapture that only lasted briefly as a human life yet still was more precious than forever as a vampire.

And I asked her to marry me; I was wealthy, had many investments, so I had much to offer her. But she surprised me by suggesting I might be interested in working with her and her father in their business. I thought it worth considering...

Yes, it was all too good to be true.

You see, I had forgotten the curse; the curse I was born with, and the curse from the Shaman's dark bargain with the devil so that I might experience mortality.

After that first week, we returned to Mobile. She went back to work, and I drove back to Gatlinburg, planning to divest myself of the chalet, and its horror chamber of vampirism trappings in the basement.

It was rainy in the mountains, dreary and dismal -- which suited my mood exactly, since I was depressed about being away from Cansada, missing her deeply. Sexual longings had been awakened; I burned to be with her, and my physical need was torture.

The first night back, I began sorting through my legal papers, determining what investments I would use to liquidate my holdings and then use for the Millbourne business. I wanted to invest something substantial, in an effort to repay them for what I'd stolen from the safe.

I was deep into the intricate tangled terminology of my legal papers when I heard a scraping sound on my balcony. I went to the windows, saw a bird; it looked like a raven.

I shook my head, trying to convince myself that what I was seeing wasn't a raven...but just then it flew to the window, futilely crashing into the glass.

Impulsively, I opened the sliding glass door and it soared into the room, then landed on the carpet. As I watched it, the raven spun around and around, so tightly turning I couldn't make it out. Gradually the form grew taller, and a mist developed; then a man emerged from the fog, and I saw to my horror it was Zackery!

Bent and gnarled, he was as I'd first seen him in the cemetery, now pointing a crooked finger in my face as he exclaimed, "You ingrate! You imbecile! Had to have your way, be with that mortal woman, become mortal yourself to feel sexual lust. You will pay for it, you'll pay for it NOW!"

"I...I... How did you get here? You perished, I saw you go up in flames!" I was horrified, paralyzed by fear.

"My soul was only released, not in this earthly plane, on a higher plane where I wanted to stay. But now...because of your selfishness, I've been forced to return. Cursed again to be a vampire!"

"I'm...sorry. I didn't know, the Shaman didn't explain," I stammered in a lame attempt to avoid blame.

"You and your damn mortal longings! I should never have given you the dark gift!"

"No, you shouldn't have! I didn't want it, and I had no choice in the matter. I hated it, hated it every moment... being a depraved animal, no better than a common jackal, killing and killing, blood lusting..."

'You were the only one I could offer it to, the seventh son of a seventh son."

"Well I'm mortal now, and I won't allow you to make me into a vampire again! And certainly not just to save you." I was indignant, enraged, determined he would not ruin me again.

Suddenly he cackled in harsh laughter, mocking me. "You're correct, you won't become a vampire again. Oh no, something much worse than that."

Stunned, I asked, "What do you mean?"

"At dawn you'll see what you owe the devil."

And then he was gone, disappearing in the flash of smokiness I vividly recalled as a vampiristic mystical power.

I stood there shaking, trembling from head to toe -- what did he mean? What would happen to me at dawn?

It was barely midnight, but I began pacing the floor, sickened by the idea I could lose my mortality again...wondering if Zackary was being truthful or simply trying to scare me because he'd been forced to return as a vampire?

I was very uneasy though, because I recalled clearly now how the Shaman had warned me I'd be indebted to evil spirits. But perhaps not. However, in case something would occur to destroy my existence, I sat down, took out pen and paper, and began a long letter to Cansada, trying as best I could to explain my past, what had happened to me... Then I sealed it in an envelope, put her name on it and left it propped on the beside table.

Dawn was breaking outside, and I felt exhausted as I walked out onto the balcony... When I lifted my eyes to the eastern sky where pale light crept up behind the mountains, I began to feel a tingling sensation throughout my body, growing hotter and hotter until it became a piercing burn. The sunlight, no...not the sunlight!

But even as I had that thought, I realized this was a familiar burn, the one I felt when I turned into a raven. My heart began pounding erratically, stopped, then beat swiftly.

I was overpowered by the urge to squat on the floor, and then the spinning began, round and round, faster and faster, tightly circling, the speed becoming a blur to the eye...faster, hotter, a speed demon, my body shrinking, burning, smaller and smaller I became, a small circular downward burning...my body going into a molecular revolution. I thought I heard myself screaming a long, shattering scream that echoed through the distant mountains.

Then suddenly it was over: I was a raven, perching above the balcony doorway. But as I made an effort to fly, a peculiar hardness set in, rendering me immovable, paralyzed. And slowly I realized that I had turned to stone, a solitary object shaped like a raven over the doorway -- yet my mind, oh God, my mind was alive and thinking!

To my astute ears came the cackling of Zackary and his voice reciting Edgar Allan Poe:

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted -- nevermore!

       The  End

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