I fell to my knees, staggered by the assault and the sudden loss of blood. I watched as Craven screamed, twisting from side to side, trying to pull the wood from his body. But he was growing weaker—and older—with every effort, and finally he collapsed onto the earthen floor, twitching and shuddering. I watched him die. I watched him turn into an old, old man. His mouth kept opening and closing for several seconds after he died.
I looked up weakly. Standing over him was Hare.
“Why?” I asked, barely able to talk.
He stooped down beside me. Then he pulled down his soiled shirt to reveal his chest. There, in nearly the same place as mine, was a birthmark in the shape of a dragonfly.
How he had become so disfigured I will likely never know. Trying to fight off Craven, before he was turned into his slave? It doesn’t matter now. He spoke not another word after his outburst, and I suspect he won’t ever again. He just picked me up in his arms and carried me like a baby up to my room. My father, Minter. I had found my father. The reason I had come here.
I’m afraid writing this has used up the last of my strength, sweets. It is time for me to close my eyes now.
Just remember that I love you.
May 13—Craven was right. It is an odd sensation, being dead. It takes some getting used to. It’s not horrible. Just different.
I’ve learned so much in just a few short hours. For example: I’m not sure where the myth started that says a vampire does not cast a reflection in a mirror. It’s a lie. I’m looking in a mirror right now and see myself quite plainly. My pallor isn’t very good, and the dark circles under my eyes don’t make me very happy, but there’s no doubt that the face staring back at me is me.
Oh, yes, and there’s no problem with crucifixes, either. Probably an old story started by the Church to make themselves feel important. I found one in Craven’s drawer. I picked it up, turned it over, held it in front of my face. It’s just an object, nothing more.
But the hunger is real—Craven was right again about that. It’s like feeling horny, only stronger. It’s like feeling horny when you haven’t had sex in weeks, not even any jacking off.
I know you’re going to be surprised by the change in me, sweets. But I had to do it, and when you read this, you’ll understand. If I was to fight Craven for your love, it had to be on an even playing field. I figured if you were going to spend eternity as the walking undead with anyone, it was going to be me. Hare—my father—just made it all easier. I never would have expected that. Brilliant move on his part. Took Craven right out of the competition.
Though if he’d have been just a little quicker, maybe I wouldn’t have died. But then I wouldn’t be a vampire either, and I’m kind of liking this new existence. Maybe I’ll change my mind when I have to climb into that stinky old coffin, but I just drained a calf that Dad brought me, and man, I’m already looking better. Beats a week in the gym any day! Steroids have nothing on a little calf’s blood.
I just called you. You thought I was calling from a telephone. But I don’t need a telephone to call you, sweets! Not anymore. It’s so cool how I can make your phone ring from so far away. I never knew vampires could do that. You sounded so happy to hear from me. So relieved. You said you’d been worried about me, unable to reach me at the inn. You said you missed me.
And oh, baby, how I miss you. In ways I couldn’t imagine possible.
You’re going to like the change in me, I think, once you get used to it. Being a vampire tends to give one some direction in life. I can do so much. Imagine the trips we can take, Minter! Imagine what we can get people to do for us! You can still take photos, sweets: I suspect if vampires can cast reflections in mirrors, we can be photographed, too. We’re still flesh, after all: dead flesh, but flesh nonetheless.
And just think how you’ll be able to control your subjects! No more fussy diva drag queens!
Oh, baby—I’m coming home! I can’t wait to see you. I’m leaving tonight. I’ll be there before sunrise. Have to be, you know.
A joke, Minter!
And when I see you—oh man!—I can’t wait to take you in my arms and kiss you! Kiss you as I’ve never kissed you before. Make love to you like you won’t believe. Believe me, you have never experienced an orgasm like I’m going to give you.
I used to worry you would leave me. I used to think I had no power over that eventuality. I thought you were the stronger one, superior to me. How wrong I was. Your logic, Minter, has no power next to my dreams. Not anymore.
I think I’ll let you read this after it’s all done. It’ll be better that way. After I bring you back up here and you’ve had a chance to meet my dad and get used to everything. You know, like how it feels to be dead.
You’ll like Dad. He’s got a gruff exterior but a heart of gold. And he takes such good care of me, just like he’ll take care of you. It’s just what I always wanted, Minter. My father, you, eternal life—
You know, Craven was wrong about one thing. He said I had to choose between love and truth. But he was wrong.
I can have both.
For eternity.
I’m coming home, my love. Get ready! I’m coming home!
STING
Michael Thomas Ford
Chapter One
“As you can see, our information systems fall somewhere between the Luddite and the Amish.”
Ben Hodge laughed. It was the first time he’d laughed since arriving in Downing the day before, or perhaps even since deciding to leave New York in February. Maybe, he thought, even since the night before Trey’s death.
“We’ve got a computer, and we’re linked to the big library in Cedar Creek, of course, but you probably won’t get many requests for inter-library loans. Mostly people come in for the new Stephen King and Jackie Collins titles.”
Martha Abraham spoke with the still, soft voice of a woman who had been a librarian for most of her 72 years. With quick, intelligent eyes peering out from behind thick bifocals and a body that appeared to be nothing more than twigs held together by sheer force of will, she reminded Ben of a hummingbird.
“And that’s about it,” Martha said as they returned to the front desk from their tour of the library. It hadn’t taken long. The Downing Public Library was comprised of just three rooms: the central stacks holding the collection of fiction and nonfiction, a smaller children’s room, and the librarian’s tiny office. The latter was tucked behind the library’s long wooden counter, under which the tools of the librarian’s trade— checkout slips, rubber stamps, pencils, reference materials, and assorted candies for the infrequent young patron—were housed.
“You’re sure you want to do this?” Martha looked at Ben, her dark eyes fixed on his face.
Ben looked around the small library and nodded. “I’m sure,” he said, sounding more confident than he felt.
“Then here you go,” Martha said, taking a ring of three keys out of her dress pocket and handing them to Ben. “Big one’s for the front door, medium one’s for the office, and no one remembers what the small one is for but it’s always been on that ring and I’m not about to break that particular chain.”
Ben smiled as he closed his hand around the keys. Another Ozark superstition, he thought to himself.
“And now I am officially retired,” said Martha. “If you’ll excuse me, there’s a garden waiting for me to attend to it. If you need me for anything, my number’s on your desk.”
With a simple wave of her hand, Martha left the library without another glance. When the door had shut behind her, Ben took another look around. He sighed. It was all his now. He held the keys up, watching them swing from his finger, the light from the library’s many windows glinting off the well-worn metal. What was it about keys that seemed so magical?
They open doors, he told himself. They open doors to new adventures. Unexpectedly, he saw an image of himself standing in front of a door, holding a similar set of keys. They were the keys to the apartment he and Trey had moved into a year after meetin
g at a book signing, both of them standing in the rain for an hour to get Drayton Leister’s signature on his new novel. A casual conversation had turned into coffee, which had turned into dinner, which had turned into a night of lovemaking, which had turned into three years together.
He forced himself to stop thinking about it. He’d left New York to escape those memories, to leave them behind in the congested streets that smelled more and more like death to him and the crowds of people that filled the city like shades, the life drained from them by the demands of living in such a place. It was a city that ate its residents, and he’d been lucky to escape.
He walked through the stacks, investigating the library’s holdings more carefully. The contents of a library’s shelves were in many ways a reflection of its patrons’ lives. A good librarian picked and chose based on what he or she knew of the people who walked through the doors. He’d done as much in his job as the director of one of the New York Public Library’s many smaller offspring. He was curious to see what Martha Abraham’s choices could tell him about his new home.
As Martha had promised, there were the usual suspects, including King, Collins, Grisham, Straub, and pretty much every novel ever selected by Oprah for her book club. But he also found some surprises: a complete collection, in hardcover, of every book ever written by Shirley Jackson; Angela Carter’s The Burning Boat; Tarcher Debitt’s wonderful first novel, Under the Rabbit Moon. These were unexpected discoveries, books he might expect to find in a library (such as his old place of employment) with resources to spend on titles considered less than necessary to a collection, not in a place like Downing.
Then again, he was still surprised that Downing itself existed. When he’d first discovered the ad for a librarian in the employment section at the back of Library Journal, he’d had to go to an atlas to find out exactly where Downing, Arkansas, was. Even then he’d had difficulty. Tucked into the mountains like a dollar bill hidden in the pocket of a winter coat, Downing was easily missed. He’d scanned three maps before locating it in the northwest corner of the state, a tiny dot surrounded by the Ozarks National Forest and a group of lakes.
Now, looking at the books whose spines stared out at him with long, thin faces, he still wasn’t quite convinced that Downing was real, or that he himself was actually there. But he was. His belongings, still in their cardboard boxes, were sitting in the little house he’d rented in town. His apartment on New York’s Upper West Side was probably already inhabited by new tenants. His job was, he knew, already filled. His former assistant, an ambitious Columbia graduate with big plans and family connections, had been only too happy to move into his office and begin putting her stamp on the library’s collection.
In short, there was nothing for him to go back to, even if he’d wanted to. He knew people thought he was mad. His friends had tried to talk him out of the move, as had his boss at the library. Even his dry cleaner, when told that Ben was relocating to Arkansas, had looked at him strangely and said, “Is that in America?”
It was that very aspect of the place—its ability to be overlooked by the rest of the world—that appealed to him. He could get lost there, become forgotten. Or at least forget, he thought. That would be enough.
He was interrupted in his browsing of the shelves by the sound of the front door opening. Thinking it was Martha returning to give him some piece of information she’d neglected to pass along, he waited for her to appear. Instead, he was surprised to see a man walk into the room. Tall, with a stocky build, he appeared to be in his mid-30s. His dark hair was cut short and he was clean-shaven. He wore faded khaki work pants and a blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms.
“Is Martha here?” he asked when he saw Ben.
The man’s voice was soft and pleasant, a rich tenor holding the faint traces of the accent that Ben had already come to recognize as being unique to the area. It was, he thought, much less harsh than the strangled New Jersey and New York speech that had filled his ears for so long.
“I’m afraid Martha has retired,” Ben said, walking forward and holding out his hand. “I’m Ben Hodge, the new librarian.”
The man looked at Ben’s outstretched hand for a moment, as if unsure whether to believe him or not. Then he looked up at Ben and said, “Titus Durham.”
With no handshake apparently in the offing, Ben retracted his hand. “Is there something I can help you with?” he asked.
Titus shook his head. Walking past Ben, he went directly to one of the shelves. After only a moment’s search, he removed one of the books and returned to the front desk, where Ben still stood. He handed the book he’d selected to Ben.
“Cottington’s Beekeeper’s Handbook,” Ben said, looking at the cover. He looked at Titus. “You raise bees?” he asked.
“Some,” Titus answered.
Ben waited for an elaboration. When none came, he took the book with him as he went behind the desk. Opening the back cover, he removed the checkout slip that was tucked into the pocket and looked at it. Nearly every line was filled, each one with Titus Durham’s name.
“Looks like this is one of your favorites,” Ben remarked as he stamped the new due date on the slip and on the pocket. Putting the slip into the file beneath the desk, he handed the book to Titus. “You’re my first customer,” he said cheerfully.
Titus answered him with a nod, then turned and walked out of the room. Ben watched him go, listening for the sound of the door closing.
“Welcome to Downing,” he said, sighing.
Chapter Two
It was hot, too hot for sleeping. Ben kicked off the single sheet that covered his body and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He’d been tossing for hours, trying to get to sleep. The clock on his nightstand read 2:47.
He’d gone to bed wearing his boxers and a T-shirt. Now the T-shirt lay in a heap on the floor, tossed there shortly after midnight in an attempt to cool his flushed skin. It had done little good. A film of sweat covered him, matting the hair on his chest and making him feel even more uncomfortable, as if he’d gone to sleep fresh from a five-mile run without the benefit of showering.
He stood and walked to the window. The white curtains on either side of it hung limply, no breeze passing through the screen to move them. It was as if the world had died. Outside, the moon was a pale sliver in the sky, and even the stars seemed dimmed. The faint calls of nightbirds drifted through the night.
If he were still in New York, Ben thought, he would be surrounded by the sounds of taxis and snatches of conversations rising up from the street below his window. The city would be shrouded in the perpetual twilight that seemed to emanate from the very stones of its buildings, keeping it forever poised between night and day. And there would be the familiar rattling of the old air-conditioner in the bedroom, the one that always seemed on the brink of failure but which managed to exude enough of its chilly breath to ward off the worst of the summer heat.
The new house felt strange. He didn’t yet know the sounds of its sleep, and the paths to the bathroom and downstairs to the kitchen had yet to be burned into his subconscious so that he could traverse them while only half awake if he needed to pee or get a drink of water. Even the smells were different, the scent of his old apartment replaced by those of the mountains, of pine and dirt and water.
If he were still in New York, he thought too, he would return to bed and slip beneath the sheet again. Trey would turn in his sleep and slide a hand across his chest. Still sleepy, he might even continue south, his fingers following the trail of hair leading to Ben’s crotch, then wrapping around his cock. If he were still in New York. And if Trey were still alive.
He had placed an armchair next to the bedroom window. He’d brought very few things from the apartment, from their apartment, but the armchair had been one of the items he’d been unable to part with. It had been Trey’s favorite reading chair. A large, overstuffed chair covered in worn velvet the color of faded grass, it had seemed out of place in whatever room the
y’d placed it. But as soon as Ben had set it beside the window in his new home, intending to move it later when the boxes were unpacked, it had finally looked at peace with itself.
Now he sat in it. The velvet felt soft against his bare skin, and the smell of Trey surrounded him immediately, a combination of after-shave, paint, and turpentine that had always seemed to cling to him no matter how many showers he took. Closing his eyes, Ben breathed deeply. An image of Trey came to him immediately. He was seated in the chair, a book in his lap. His dark eyes looked up at Ben in surprise, his mouth opening in a smile as he saw that Ben was walking toward him nude.
Ben stopped in front of the chair, his cock level with Trey’s chin. Reaching out, he put his hand behind Trey’s head and pulled him forward. Trey obliged, his lips opening and surrounding the head of Ben’s dick, sucking gently. In moments Ben was hard and Trey’s mouth was sliding down the length of him, his nose pressing against Ben’s stomach.
Ben pumped his hips slowly, feeling the warmth of Trey’s mouth around him. Trey ran his tongue along the underside of Ben’s cock, teasing him. Ben responded by thrusting harder, deeper, until every inch of him was buried deep in Trey’s throat. He was going to come.
Then he heard the buzzing. At first he thought it was Trey humming. He felt tiny flickers of movement on his dick, which he took to be Trey’s tongue attempting to finish him off. But then the movements became sharper, more intense. The buzzing increased.
He looked down. Emerging from Trey’s mouth was the head of a bee, its antennae twitching curiously. Ben watched as it slipped from between Trey’s lips, the yellow-and-black-banded body contrasting with the whiteness of his skin. The bee’s feet pricked his skin as it walked, and he watched as its abdomen moved rhythmically up and down. There was, he knew, a stinger embedded in its end, and he prayed that it wouldn’t pierce his flesh.