Epilogue
There is, to my utter amazement, a basement in Arturo's Las Vegas home. The afternoon after the atomic blast, I peer through the carefully hidden trapdoor and discover sheets of copper, magnetic crosses arranged in odd angles, and, most important of all, an empty crystal vial, waiting to be filled with blood. A mirror rests above the vial. It can reflect either the sun or the moon, depending on how much you want to wager.
I call Seymour Dorsten, explain the possibilities to him.
Wait, he cautions. He is on his way.
I sit down and wait. Time passes slowly.
"Everything you require is in the basement. "
Do I still want a daughter? Do I still crave immor?tality?
Deep questions. I have no answers.
Seymour arrives and tries to talk me out of it.
Being human is not so great, he says.
Being a vampire gets old, I counter.
I know that I will attempt the transformation.
But I need some of his blood.
Make me a vampire first, he pleads.
That will not work, I remind him.
But, he protests.
The answer is no, I say firmly.
I take his blood, fill the vial to the brim, then tell him to get lost.
When the sun is at its peak, I lie down on the copper sheets.
The magnets draw out my aura. The magic begins.
When I awake, I feel weak and disoriented. Some?one is knocking at the door. I have to struggle up the steps to answer it. There is a spongy texture to my skin I have never noticed before, and my vision is blurred. I am not even sure where I am--only that it is dark. Blood pounds in my head, and I feel I will be sick.
I reach the front door.
A shadow moves outside the glazed side window panel.
Just before I open the door, I remember everything.
"Am I human?" I whisper to myself.
Yet I am not given a chance to know.
The knocking continues.
"Who is it?" I call in a hoarse voice.
"It's your darling," the person replies. Odd. It doesn't sound like Seymour.
Yet the voice is familiar. From long ago.
But the tone is a little demanding. Sort of impa?tient.
"Open the door," the person calls.
I wonder if I should:
Staring down at my trembling hands, I wonder many things.
TO BE CONTINUED . . .
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