***
Why, Lord, have you not answered my prayers? the adolescent boy prayed silently. He knew better than to speak after all of these years. He was alone for the moment, but who could know how long that might be? And he knew what Vincent would say about praying. How long have I been held captive now? Even I do not remember. How could I? I was but a babe when you allowed that beast to have my family.
Nathaniel paused here. He could feel the old anger rising up within him. He tried to fight it back, to hold it inside. Perhaps that was his problem after all. He had a suspicion that it was, but he also knew that it should be his right to be angry with the turn of events that had been his life. What had he done to deserve any of this?
What have I done, Lord? Tell me! We were happy and we bothered no one. Father worked the land. He worked terribly hard and for what? Very little. But he never complained. He rarely smiled, but he did smile. He could laugh! I remember that! And Mom? What had she done? I can hear her giggling as I chased her around our tiny home. She would let me catch her but not until she had had her fill of laughter.
Why did you allow this to happen? Why? I want to know. I want you to tell me the reason for any of this. He paused again, the anger having its ferocious way with him now. Go ahead. I will wait for you.
Nathaniel found himself pacing around the suite that had recently become his. Why Vincent had moved him to a much larger room he did not know and did not care in the least. He asked no further questions as he moved toward a wall and spun back, his long hair flying behind before resettling upon his shoulder and the middle of his back. It would not do to strike anything here. The rough stone would only bring more pain. There would be no releasing of his anger or his hurt.
Whatever is the matter? he continued. Have you no answers for me? And why is that? Is it because you do not know what to say? Do you choose these events to take place and not have the least notion of their resolution? Nathaniel spun again before reaching another wall. Now he was flinging his arms around as if he were arguing a case before a judge.
If that is indeed the case then let me ask you this: What did you decide first? He paused yet again. He still had his torch as well. The light seemed to be brighter than usual tonight. It bothered him the longer that he watched it. He turned away from it, rubbing his eyes a bit. After a few moments he looked back up, straight ahead, but not at anything in particular. Something else. Someplace else. Perhaps the very throne room of heaven. Did you say to yourself, “My Vincent must feed soon? It is too far for him to do anything but have the lives of the three poor pitiful peasants that I see over here.” Is that how it happened? Or did you turn and stumble upon our home and in boredom decide that my mother and father should die?
If he was angry before now, he had graduated to raging. He was no longer pacing or waving about with his arms, but he gritted his teeth as he held that stare.
“Will He not answer, my son?”
Nathaniel said nothing as Vincent’s voice suddenly came from behind. He did not jump. He had grown too accustomed to Vincent’s games as well. He simply lowered his head and turned to face him. “Who?”
“Please,” the vampire snickered. “It is clear that you were praying. Or perhaps attempting it, anyway. I’m curious. What did He have to say? Hmm? Anything at all?”
Nathaniel walked over to his bed and sat silently.
“Come now, you can tell me.” When his question was met with further silence, Vincent continued. “Fine, then. Have it your way. I will guess what was said.” He was in the rarest of moods. On most other occasions Nathaniel’s silence would have brought instant punishment. For the moment, it appeared that there would be no blows tonight. Perhaps they might yet come.
There was a loud scratching sound as Vincent lit the torch that he had brought into the room. Vincent did not require any light, but seemed to adore the theatrics of it all. He placed the torch in the metal ring behind him, near the heavy door. Its glow provided very little light, but Nathaniel found that he needed to shield his eyes from it, nonetheless. After a few moments he slowly took his right hand away from his eyes and he could see without discomfort. When he did so, Vincent was there standing over him. He was smiling.
It was a terrible smile.
It provided less warmth than even the pathetic torch by the door.
“He said nothing!” The vampire leaned close. Nathaniel had trouble making out his features because Vincent was blocking the light; however, he could well imagine finding a prideful look of disdain there. “He said nothing because there is no one there! There is no god! There is no god to rescue you from me. There was no god that put you in my hands. There is nothing there.” He motioned above them. “Do you hear me? There is no god!”
Vincent stepped back. Nathaniel could see a bit. He would have seen more without the light. Unfortunately, his eyes had to readjust every time Vincent stepped in and out of the torch’s light. He could see that Vincent was no longer playful and wondered how long it might take before he became angry. It usually did not take very long.
If he thought Vincent was simmering toward an eventual outburst of angry words and worse yet, angry deeds, he was in for a genuine surprise. Instead, he got quite the opposite. Across the room there was a large chair. Nathaniel rarely sat in it because Vincent always did. It wasn’t often that he would recline when he paid him one of his visits, but on those rare occasions when he did, that was the chair that he would use. Vincent grabbed the chair and easily slid it close to Nathaniel’s bed, sitting down.
“Now, do not misunderstand me. There is a God. There are too many cathedrals in the world to discount this; too many priests. I believe that He works one day a week. It used to be on the last day of the week which was Saturday, but He changed it to the first day: Sunday. Do not ask me why. In any event, He apparently listens to the people’s complaining and supplications and whatever else. There is a foul smelling incense that the priest walks about with. There is a whole lot of the drinking of wine. It is all ceremonial, of course. No one wishes to drink anything that does such magical things to one’s mind. Certainly not!”
Nathaniel continued to say and do nothing. His own anger had subsided, but was not yet put away for another day. He had had many moments over the course of his captivity when he felt like shouting at God or Vincent or even at his own father for not having had the necessary strength to defend the family and kill the beast even when he knew that there might be no force on earth capable of doing so. He was just angry, and anger was very rarely objective or controllable, he had found.
“Have you never seen such things?” Vincent asked him now, but not really.
Nathaniel recognized all of the moods: anger, melancholy, boredom, impatience, gaiety. There was none that he favored more than another, except perhaps ones that did not end in blows for him.
Prone to drone on at length when pleased with himself, as he was currently, Vincent continued. “It is quite the spectacle. Unfortunately, for you and me that God will not be helpful. In fact, I do not believe that He even knows that we exist. Perhaps He does, but simply has allowed us to our own devices.”
“What devices are those?” Nathaniel spoke before he could stop himself. It was that anger yet bubbling at the surface. It would have been better had he simply waited for Vincent to grow tired of the speeches and depart. It was always better not to speak. Now it was too late to go back.
“The boy speaks! How wonderful! Please, speak further. What might a boy have asked of the Most High?”
“I wanted to know why He has not answered me.”
“Yes?”
“I have prayed, but He does not reply,” Nathaniel said, lowering his face.
A moment before he was a young man holding his gaze heavenward, demanding with both word and expression. Now he was a shadow of that man. Still, though he knew in his heart that he should be silent before the vampire, he could not stop himself. It had been too long, and he wanted answers.
“God neither an
swers prayer, nor does He even acknowledge them. He will not so much as show me His face.”
“And why do you think that is so?” Vincent asked.
For a moment Nathaniel said nothing, perhaps measuring his words for the first time today. Nathaniel held his ground as well, sitting on the bed and staring at his feet planted there on the straw covered stone floor. “I do not know.”
“Yes, you do!” The vampire suddenly snapped. “And I demand that you look at me when we are speaking! Have you still no manners? No respect? No fear?”
That was how it was with Vincent. His mood could change in a heartbeat. That was if he had a heart.
“Look at me!” Vincent shouted, immediately grabbing Nathaniel by the shoulder-length brown hair and yanking back his head so that he could have his attention. Vincent pressed his nose against Nathaniel’s left cheek and stared deeply into his gloomy brown eyes. The pain was immediate and hurt terribly. He grimaced, but forced himself to open his eyes through it all. He knew to expect far worse if he did not look.
“I do not know why!” Nathaniel forced out the words.
Vincent pulled harder, clearly not pleased with the answer.
“Yes, you do!” he repeated. “You know because I have made it quite clear. There is no god here to answer you. You are wasting your time and mine.”
Here, Vincent finally relented, releasing Nathaniel, who started to move away, but quickly thought better of it. He needed to be content with his freedom and nothing more. Greed would only bring more pain and suffering.
Now it was Vincent who was doing the pacing. “Will this never cease? Must we fight endlessly?” He must have realized the irony of the situation because he immediately stopped and turned back toward the boy. "I brought you here to be my companion. Instead, I have brought myself nothing but suffering. Why? Would you have it that I had killed you along with your family that night?”
Yes, Nathaniel thought but, thankfully, did not bring voice to it.
“Yes?” Vincent said with a frown.
It was surprising in its utter sadness. In all the years, Nathaniel had never seen such emotion. Momentarily amazed, he then wondered whether or not it might be just an act. As much as he might wish to, he decided to finally say nothing further for the day.
Vincent once again approached Nathaniel’s bed. He set his hands on each side of him, encircling him. He looked into his eyes for the second time, and this time without malice. Nathaniel did not attempt to move away, but stayed his ground.
“Yes, my son. You do wish that I had killed you that night. I can read your mind. You think that had I killed you and fed on your life you would be safe now. However, if there is no god, does it not stand to reason that there would be no heaven as well? If you were dead, perhaps you would just be nothing.”
“I am nothing.” Nathaniel said.
He was no longer in that large cold room back in Romania, but instead, poking out from beneath musty forgotten blankets in an old shack of a barn that might not make it through one more winter. It was early to be awake, but awake was better than reliving old memories not worth having lived the first time around. Though the sun had not yet gone down for the night, its rays were no longer attacking, searching for a weakness in his defenses. What sun there was, now hit the west side of the barn. He could see something of the ray’s nature but they were now no longer strong enough to even blind him were he to venture outside and among them. The vampire would live another night.
Perhaps the sun will find me tomorrow, Nathaniel thought.
10:49 a.m.
Barbara stared at her coffee as she stirred its contents of sugar and Coffee-Mate creamer. She was deep in thought. There had been very little interaction between her husband and her this morning. He was troubled by his work—work that she fought her curiosity very hard not to inquire about. She wondered whether he and Mark needed help, and, if they did, would that help come? Would some other police jurisdiction try and take over? Would that cause KPD not to ask for help?
Finally, she removed the spoon from her cup and set it back down on the spoon rest. She vaguely noticed any of this. She sat down at the dining room table and pulled her Bible closer. She read it most days, missing time only for the occasional crisis at home; with twins, one never knew what might happen. Currently, Jerod was off at school and the twins were on a blanket in the middle of the living room floor. From her position at the dining room table she could watch them well. She was looking at them now, but the thoughts overwhelmed her. She was troubled by the thought of Michael receiving help, but that was not exactly accurate. It was the notion of help that had wormed its way into her mind. Maybe it was the word itself: help.
She glanced away from the twins and looked back at the Bible laid out before her on the table. It was open to no book in particular. Had she opened it? She could not remember doing so, but paid it no mind. There was obviously no other alternative.
Her focus came back to her. She was staring at the book of Romans. Her eyes found Romans 8:28. She allowed the words to play in her mind for a time, but there was no immediate connection or epiphany to be had. It was a popular verse that she had read many times before, and had heard it quoted ad nauseam. She frowned. Perhaps that had been too harsh. She allowed her mind to clear a moment and read it again.
“And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose.”
Having nothing stop her, no big chill or apparent sign to affect her one way or another, she allowed her eyes to continue to the next verse.
“For whom He foreknew, He also predestined to become conformed to the image of His Son, that He might be first-born among many brethren…”
Still nothing.
“and whom He predestined, these He also called; and whom He called, these He also justified; and whom He justified, …”
Music started playing in her head now. It was Jerod’s old Justin Timberlake CD, Justified. There were a few songs on it that she had heard that she thought weren’t too bad, but that obviously wasn’t helping anything right at this moment.
“…and whom He justified, these He also glorified. What then shall we say to these things? If God is for us, who is against us?”
That stopped her. She read the last verse again. This was another one of these oft-quoted verses; however, this one she never got tired of hearing. It almost sung to her like a beautiful song lyric or line of a poem. She sat back against her chair and took a healthy drink of her coffee. It had cooled slightly so she was now able to do more than merely sip it. Glancing over, she could see that the twins were just fine. She would be feeding them again soon; however, so there was little time left for her to find any comfort or direction or sense of purpose in God’s word this morning.
She started to pull away from the moment, to close her Bible and push her chair in and so on and so forth, but took one last look at the pages before her. This time, rather than continuing down the page at what she had been reading to no avail, she changed direction. There, two verses before where she had begun, something stopped her. And the light bulb came on. Finally.
It was one medium-sized word that did it: groanings.
It was a funny sounding word when taken alone. But when one read it in context, especially this context, it was extraordinary. Barbara followed this context back a while until she found the apparent beginning of the thought.
“For in hope we have been saved, but hope that is seen is not hope; for why does one also hope for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, with perseverance we wait eagerly for it. And in the same way the Spirit also helps our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we should, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words…”
The thought continued over to the next verse, and it was good and important and all of that; however, that word was continuing to haunt her in a pleasin
g way.
Groanings.
What a thought? she contemplated. To think that the Holy Spirit helped us, spoke to us, not with words, which we, in our weakness, often have no words to communicate what troubles us, what hurts us, what causes sorrow. Deep within our innermost being, the hurt or sorrow speaks to God, without the need of our words!
Just then she began to hear the first whimpering of two babies feeling abandoned. Barbara came out of her fog and smiled as the thought occurred to her that her children could speak with groanings too deep for words as well, and she was quite pleased that she could hear them and meet their needs just like the Lord.
Feeling much better about herself and Michael as well, she got up from her chair and pushed it back under the table. Perhaps her husband and she had not had the closest week together thus far. Perhaps they had skipped a few too many church Sundays. Perhaps Michael was spending every waking and even un-waking moment thinking not of God but about some murderer that had been loosed in their once-quaint and little town. However, the Lord God and His Holy Spirit knew well of their weaknesses and could turn around everything that was meant to be hurtful and destroying in their lives and make it beautiful.
The twins were growing restless. By the look of them, they had been doing so for quite a little while, although they were yet to cry. She allowed that last thought to float away like a startled butterfly from a beautiful flower garden as she went to them.
3:21 p.m.
“Hi, Mom!” Jerod announced as he opened the front door after school and rushed down the hallway toward the bathroom.
“Hello, sweetie,” she smiled, watching his usual routine with affection.
Kids! He'd rather risk losing it on his way home from school than waste precious time using the restrooms on the campus, she thought.
When her son had completed his business, he retraced his steps down the hall in a completely different state of mind. Quiet and calm now, he casually walked into the space between the kitchen and the dining room.
“Hey, Mom,” he began as he joined his baby brother and sister on a blanket on the floor. They looked up at their older brother and, visibly delighted, began to dance about, waving their hands and kicking their feet. “Are we going to Wednesday night Bible classes tonight?” Jerod smiled back at them and began to randomly grab their hands and feet, giving everything a quick little shake.
Barbara frowned. She had not given it any thought. She considered it during that moment between his asking and her answering, while glancing at the twins. After all, at their age, they pretty much dictated every decision, both minor as well as major. She had taken them many times before, and it had been rare that they did so poorly that they became a distraction. However, her thoughts turned to Michael. She wondered what time he would be home tonight. Would he have eaten anything? She wondered whether she ought to dutifully stay home in case he might need something, doubtful as it was.
“No, dear,” she finally answered. “I’d better stay home just in case your dad needs me.”
“Do you think that I could go, Mom?” he asked. “Neal Jensen’s mom can pick me up.”
“Have you discussed this with Neal’s mom, already?” she asked with a grin as she quickly turned back to her dinner preparations.
She was making a small stew tonight. She had had a craving for potatoes and carrots so badly this afternoon she almost thought she was pregnant again. Luckily for me, Doctor Bentley's already took care of that possibility. And it wasn't like Michael didn't enjoy his three days off. He couldn't walk, but it hadn't been the end of the world. She turned because she did not want him to see her amused look. Sometimes it cracked her up how her son operated things whenever he wanted something. It was absolutely true what Mrs. Elms from the school had told her concerning Jerod. He was a good boy. He was just good in other ways as well, like conniving.
“Yeah. When she was picking up Neal after school she told me that she could come and get me if you couldn’t go to church tonight.”
“That was nice of her.”
“Actually, she asked me to tell you that I could spend the night since it would be late before we got home and she could take us to school in the morning.”
Barbara put down the last of the potatoes that she had been peeling and tossed the peels into the trash. She turned back around to face her son. She had already decided that he could go, and spend the night over at his friend’s house as well. He had the grades. She never had to fight him over doing his homework. He was always helping out around the house, even volunteering to do jobs that were sometimes unpleasant, like diaper detail, although not that often. However, she couldn’t just let him off that easy, could she?
“Gee, Jerod,” she began. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea...unless I get the biggest hug ever!”
She was sure that Jerod had been preparing himself all along his way home from school today for a “no”. Therefore, he simply stared back at her while her words seeped into his head. When they did, he leapt to his feet and ran after her as if he might actually tackle her. Luckily for her, she had the kitchen counter to brace herself against.
“Thanks, Mom,” Jerod said, throwing his growing arms around her and giving her the big squeeze that she had been counting on. Barbara laughed heartily and happily hugged her son right back.
What a wonderful boy, she thought. May the twins be just as good.
6:00 p.m.
Barbara watched as Leslie Jenson's black Chevy Tahoe quietly drove off. From her position at the end of the walkway near the driveway, she could see their two boys smiling and giggling about something already in the back seat. The Lord knew what silly thing it was, but the sight warmed her heart as she turned around and walked back inside the house. The phone began to ring. She found herself feeling a bit of melancholy at the realization that she wouldn't have Jerod to keep her company tonight. However, he was getting older, she considered as she picked up her pace. The dinners and evenings shared between parents and their children were, after all, a finite number.
Soon he'll be going to proms, graduating, going to college and then getting married. Oh, God! Grandchildren! I'm too young to be a Grandma!
Sighing, Barbara closed the door behind her and quickly turned the lock. She glanced at the twins as she reached for the wireless phone. They were lying quietly in the little used playpen, still doing fine with the few moments alone that they’d had while she had seen their brother off.
“Hello,” Barbara said without first glancing at the phone identification display. Her thoughts were still elsewhere.
“Hi, Barbara,” the familiar voice on the other end greeted her. It was Jennifer Mitchell. “How are you?”
“I’m good, Jen. Thanks. How ‘bout you?” The two of them had met one Sunday morning in church when their families had sat together. Both the Lopez’ and the Mitchell’s had arrived late just as the worship music had begun, forcing them to quickly jump into the last remaining pew at the back of the sanctuary. It had turned out to be rather fateful. The two women began a friendship that morning that had lasted four years and counting.
“I’m fine. I’ve just been thinking about you. How’s Mike?”
“Well, as you can well imagine, he’s hardly been home.”
“I bet.”
“I couldn’t tell you anything about the case, of course, but mostly because I don’t know anything.”
Barbara moved over to the couch that sat directly before the playpen. She waved at the twins with her free left hand.
“Well,” her friend continued. “I certainly didn’t call for gossip. I was really just curious whether you might be making it to church tonight.”
“No,” Barbara quickly replied. “I was thinking about it, but I think I’d better stay home in case Michael needs anything. I don’t know what time he might be home, but I plan on being here when he d
oes.”
“It sounds quiet over there. Where are the kids?”
“The twins are right here in the playpen…”
“The playpen? You?” Laughter followed. It was an old joke.
“Now you sound like Michael,” Barbara giggled, too. Michael always complained that he would survive high speed pursuits and fantastic gun play which Kingsburg, thankfully never had, only to be killed by tripping over some infant. The heart of the complaining and endless whining had very little to do, however, with the kids on the floor, but rather the fuchsia playpen that Barbara just had to have back when they first found out that they were pregnant. Michael had fought her on the initial purchase to no avail, and a year or so later when she simply rarely used it, he complained all the more.
“I know. I know.” Jennifer laughed heartily. “I remember when Jason and I were there that night for dinner and Jason set Michael off when he asked why you didn’t seem to be using it.”
The two friends spent twenty minutes on the phone together before the twins began to get hungry and, therefore, fussy. They parted with promises of getting together once the town crisis had been concluded. The mutual hope was that it would be sooner rather than later.
8:10 p.m.
Barbara yawned as she read the last line of the page and then reached up unconsciously to turn to the next one.
“But he was all that she had been able to think about all day. And now, there stood the stranger: tall, dark and laden with muscle. Though the strong breeze whipped her long crepe skirt into a frenzy about her long, milky-white legs, she didn’t notice. The young princess was unable to take her eyes off of him. He was a golden god. She could see his heart beating within his strong bare chest even though he was quite a distance from her. Suddenly, he looked up and grabbed her with his eyes. It felt as if he were reaching out with his gentle hand and caressing her. She quivered, making her drop the basket and the flowers she had picked. His lips moved. Was he speaking? she wondered. Was he blowing her a kiss perhaps? She could only dare hope.”
Barbara lowered the book onto her lap with a sigh in spite of the heat of the seduction. What the hell am I doing reading this drivel? she thought to herself. She thought of Pat Conroy’s Beach Music. That’s what she really wanted to read, but she’d read it five times, and once this year already. With another sigh, she slammed the romance novel closed and tossed it onto the other side of the couch.
Just then, a sound traveled down the hall.
She turned her head and waited. Looking over her right shoulder, her eyes stared at one spot on the wall which stood between her and the nursery, as if they might penetrate the paint and drywall and insulation and see what might have made the noise. She furrowed her brow. Her ears probed the quiet night for the identity of the disturbance.
Nothing.
Barbara did not want to get up. It was getting late, and she had already logged in a full day. Jerod was away, Michael was still not home and the twins were asleep; why did she need to get up? The only reason to get up now was to turn out lights, double-check locked doors and climb into bed. That was all.
And yet there she was lifting herself off of the couch and heading down the hall for a bed check. She straightened her simple white T-shirt upon standing up. The bottom of her pink pajama bottoms fluttered over the thick beige carpet and her bare feet as she headed for the nursery. When she reached the door which was only half closed, she quietly pushed it back open. The cool breeze hit her with a start, giving her gooseflesh.
The nursery window was standing wide open.
Dear God!
The room was dark except where the street lamp from the next street over shone against the open space and the fluttering curtains. She bolted unthinking for the nearest crib—Robbie's. Barbara clutched the sides of the crib and peered down into it. In the civil twilight she could barely see him, but enough of him to know that he was fine. She touched his tiny pink face. He was warm and still asleep. Good! she thought. She quickly turned and went to check on her daughter. She was equally asleep. The only one concerned in the least about the open window was their mother. She put her hands to her breast, trying to force herself to calm back down.
Barbara turned her attention toward the open window, the curtains still dancing there.
The window must have come open, she thought while she walked over to it, as incredulous a possibility as it was. But how?
The thin curtains began to beat against her face when Barbara reached out to close the window, as if they could somehow know of her intent and were trying to prevent it. Nimble, delicate fingers stretched outward and took hold of each side of the sliding window. As she did so, she thought of how she had never known a fear like she just felt when she first saw the open window. There were stories in the newspaper all of the time concerning child abductions, and for one very terrible moment she had considered her twins might be the next to grace those headlines. But now it was over.
She just noticed the missing window screen.
Barbara stopped in mid-maneuver and was struck dumbfounded for a brief second. Everything suddenly moved in slow-motion. She almost asked herself the question: "Why did I stop?”
Her right wrist suddenly hurt. She followed the discomfort signal back to the nerve ending which had sent it. A hand closed over her wrist, and now on the other one as well. The realization brought her back to her senses. Someone came through her window. She looked up. There was a face now, adorned by long flowing black hair that the wind was playing with. There was a twisted confident grin and piercing, penetrating eyes. It was a terrible face.
She screamed.
The infants awoke with a start and immediately began to cry. Strangely, Barbara did not hear them.
Her hands went numb under the pressure of the vise-grips which held her fast. Interestingly, she somehow noted, they were bitingly cold.
Wave after wave of chills raced along Barbara's spine as the twins' tiny vocal chords sounded louder and louder. But presently the object of her concern was climbing through the open space between outside and in.
She screamed again.
The owner of the hands laughed heartily and continued to hold her as he pulled himself through the window and straightened up. She marveled momentarily at his height.
Barbara's eyes stretched wide at the sight; the long flowing dark hair, the leather coat, the heavy riding boots.
She immediately recognized that this was the same figure that she had seen the night before when she had visited Tiffany.
“Madam,” he said to her. “Your children seem to be crying!”
That was when she finally heard them.
Barbara shuffled backwards with the thought of someone hurting her babies, all along trying to free herself from his grip. Her feet tangled as she attempted to jerk herself free and she lost her balance. The man still did not let go of her.
“A pity!”
“Who are you?” She tried to gain some composure by speaking to her attacker as she got back to her feet. Then, she continued to attempt to shake free of his grip, but could not. “What do you want?”
“So many questions!” He laughed.
As he spoke, Barbara took the opportunity to try once more to free herself with one last violent shake of her arm. “Let me go!”
“As you wish.”
Barbara suddenly became free and fell down. She let out a cry as the momentum snapped her head back when she hit the floor, biting her lip.
“There!” he laughed, resting his hands at his sides above her. “You are welcome.”
Barbara did not care about the intruder's sarcasm, nor did she wait to see if the pain in her throbbing head would subside. Not her, not a policeman's wife. Instead, without as much as a thought otherwise, she pushed herself to her feet and toward her crying children.
“Well!” came that dreaded voice from a heartbeat behind her. “What precious little throats they have!”
This time she heard everything loud and clear. Alarms went off inside her head, making the pain a hundred times worse than before. There was no time to escape with her children. Instead, she spun to attack.
The man had her before she could scream. Those cold, claw-like fingers had her arms at the flesh just above her elbows and were pinning them to her body. She tried to let loose a cry but could not. The pain this time made her bite harder into her lower lip. She tasted the copper taste of her blood. He lifted her off of her bare feet with little effort and then brought her close. Suddenly, green eyes which seemed black as pitch to her in the dark, widened and focused immediately upon the trickle of blood upon her lips.
He pulled his face back in a terrible smile, exposing ivory white fangs. The sight made her shiver and she finally was able to let out a cry.
“Careful,” he whispered tenderly. “You'll spill it.”
He did not seem to notice her revulsion as he pulled her closer still. Instead, he seemed to be mesmerized by that crimson red upon her lips. He brought them down to him and licked them clean with a slow sweep of his rough tongue.
The tongue was cold, too, and it was at that moment when she realized that her attacker was no man. Just what he was, she could not yet fathom.
The last thing Barbara Lopez heard before she blacked out was the terrible sound of her babies' crying. Tears streamed down her cheeks as her throat squeezed tightly shut and her heart bounded within her chest as the walls of the black void burst open and swallowed her. She attempted to fight it briefly, struggling, squirming, stretching, and reaching beyond her frail capabilities to grab onto something, anything, just as long as she wasn't taken away from her babies. Yet, there was nothing to anchor her there in the nursery… in the world.
To her ears, the twins suddenly stopped screaming.