Bloodlines

A perfect night for vampires …

May I have the next dance? asked the vampire in a silky voice.

You aren’t Cos! cried Ari.

No, said the vampire. I’m not.

Ari’s eyes opened wide. In the shifting light, she thought she recognized the face from her vision—the tightly drawn white skin and aquiline nose, the dark, glittering eyes of her nightmare.

But can’t we dance anyway? suggested the vampire, his voice sweet. He reached out and she felt his cool hand on the back of her neck. She tingled from head to toe and felt vaguely sick as he took her in his arms and guided her into a slow two-step. Her head felt fuzzy and she was having trouble thinking clearly. The figures around them seemed to fade and grow dim.

Tell me about yourself, he said softly.

Bloodlines

Vampire Twins

Janice Harrell

1

Mrs. Montclair paled and closed the newspaper hastily. Paul took the paper from her hands and scanned the headline. Jeez, he said, the serial killer is at it again.

Creepy! said Anne-Marie. She dipped a scoop of mashed potatoes, dented it with her spoon, and neatly dribbled gravy into the dent.

Paul frowned at the newspaper story. It’s kind of weird. All of them have bled to death, but the cops don’t find the bodies in a puddle of blood or anything. The guy must kidnap them, take them somewhere else to slit their throats, then dump the bodies on the street.

Mrs. Montclair took a long shuddering breath. Paul, do you have to talk about this now? Why can’t you read the comics like other kids?

Paul tossed the paper aside. I don’t know what you’re worried about, Mom. It’s always drunks he goes after. I mean, half the time they find the bodies right outside a bar. That tells you something, doesn’t it?

Nope, said his sister. You just said they couldn’t have been killed near the bar—else there would have been lots of blood around. So he could have kidnapped them somewhere else.

Yeah, right, said Paul. For your info, Ari, they always print the alcohol content of the corpse, and lots of times these guys were drunk.

Anne-Marie’s name was always shortened to Ari because that was as much as she could manage when she was small. At sixteen, the nickname still stuck. She rested her chin on her hand. It’s funny the way he kills them. Why not just shoot them? Maybe he’s got a sick thing about liking the blood.

The saucepan slipped from Mrs. Montclair’s fingers with a clatter and gravy spattered the floor. That’s enough! she cried, stooping to wipe it up with a paper towel. I don’t want to hear another word about this deranged killer. Her voice shook. Not a word, do you hear me?

Ari and Paul glanced at each other and shrugged. They knew from the tone of their mother’s voice that she meant business. Paul flipped to the comics and did not glance out the kitchen window that gave onto the dark backyard.

Outside, a shadowy cloaked figure darted with swift, fluid movement up onto the Montclairs’ back porch, then tiptoed up to the open kitchen window. He gripped the window frame tightly with his pale hands and peered hungrily in at the twins and their mother.

What’s that? he heard Ari cry.

Nothing, Paul said, glancing at her. Calm down.

The vampire drew back at the sound of the twins’ voices. Then silently he stepped down off the porch. The print of his hand glowed phosphorescent on the window frame for some seconds. The garden gate creaked as he let himself out of the yard. In the next garden, a dog yipped. The vampire cringed and thrust his hands deeply into his pants pockets. Moving slowly, he made his way out to the sidewalk.

On either side of the old street in New Orleans’s French Quarter, town houses rose tall and gray in the semidarkness; scaffolding and ladders threw spidery shadows onto the broken concrete. The vampire whistled a monotonous tune under his breath. Suddenly, a man in a raincoat stumbled into the lamplight. He smelled of liquor and his grin was vacant. The man grabbed at the lamppost to steady himself. Oops! he mumbled to himself. Steady now. Take it easy, Cholly-boy. Let’s get home in one piece, hey?

Excuse me, said the vampire courteously. Can you tell me the time?

The drunk fell into peals of laughter and slapped his thigh. Man, I thought you were going to ask for a light. That’s what you’re s’posed to ask for. A light. Like they do in the movies. Don’t you ever go to the movies?

The vampire recoiled for a moment. The streetlamp showed the glossy white of his handsome face, its aquiline nose with the flesh drawn tightly over the bone. No, he answered softly. I don’t need a light. Only the time, if you please.

Sure, said the drunk. Jusht a minute, man. Hang on. He shot his cuff to expose his watch, but he had no chance to speak. In a movement almost too fast to see, the vampire buried his face against the man’s soft neck. With an impatient toss of his head, the vampire tore the flesh. The carotid artery spurted violently, and dark blood spattered the vampire’s face. The vampire pressed his lips tightly against the man’s neck and sucked greedily. His victim slumped and the vampire made a quick gesture of impatience and let him fall to the cement. The man’s head lolled to the side, and in the lamplight, his open eyes were lifeless. Glancing around first to be sure no one was watching, the vampire dragged the body between the houses and let it slip to the ground. Most of the corpse was hidden in shadows. He glanced down at the trousered legs and brown shoes that pressed against a clump of rank weeds. Fastidiously, he wiped the sticky blood off his lips and cheeks with a corner of his cape. Then he smiled. In the weak light of the nighttime street, his pale face appeared almost to have taken on the glow of life. He thrust his hands once more into his pockets and walked off whistling.

Moments later, a neighbor knocked at the Montclairs’ front door, and Ari ran to open it. The neighbor held out a folded newspaper. Congratulations to your mom on her promotion, Ari. I saved this for you in case she wants to send a clipping to the kinfolk.

We didn’t even see the story, Mr. Wilson, cried Ari, taking the paper. Thanks. I’ll show Mom. Want to come in?

Nah, I’ve got to be getting back.

Ari smiled. Well, thanks again.

In the Montclairs’ kitchen, the twins and their mother pored over the section of paper the neighbor had brought. It was nice of George to bring it over, said Mrs. Montclair.

Ari dimpled. He said he thought we would want to send a clipping to the kinfolk. He doesn’t know that we don’t have any kinfolk.

Unless you count Aunt Gabrielle, said Paul.

I don’t, said Ari promptly. One Christmas card a year? That’s not real kinfolk.

Paul threw his arm around his sister, and they burst into song. We are po-ooor little lambs, they crooned, with no kinfolk.

Their mother covered her ears. Stop! Stop! She laughed.

Paul made a sad face. Our own mother thinks we can’t sing. We must be bad.

Very bad, agreed Ari.

Their mother blushed. I never said you couldn’t sing, she said.

It’s okay, Mom. We know we can’t carry a tune, don’t we, Ari? Paul looked down at his sister. He was taller, but except for height the twins were as alike as bookends, with dark hair curling slightly at the temples, fair skin, and dark, fringed brown eyes.

The phone on the wall rang and Ari grabbed for it. Speak for yourself, Paul. She stuck out her tongue. I’m planning a singing career. Then into the receiver she said, Hullo? Oh, hi, Laurie. Wait a minute. I’m going to switch to the phone in my room.

Once Ari had gone to her bedroom, Paul picked up the receiver.

Hang up, Paul! his mother insisted.

Paul covered the receiver with his hand. Heck, Mom, Ari knows I listen. She doesn’t care.

A young woman is entitled to some privacy, said his mother firmly. You two are not children anymore. Now hang up.

Paul shrugged and strolled out of the kitchen. When he got to his room, he smiled to himself and quietly picked up the receiver on his bedside table. His mom didn’t understand the first thing about being a twin, he thought. She couldn’t seem to grasp that he and Ari shared everything.

And take out the garbage! his mother called after him. Now!

Paul put the phone down and groaned. Reluctantly, he went out to the back porch and lifted the black plastic liner out of the can. Outside, the cool night air was rich with the familiar scents of the neighborhood—fried fish, the fresh bread smell that came at night from the big ovens at the bakery. But also on the breeze was the scent of garbage and the vaguely ominous smell of the cold stale water in a nearby pond. Behind the lot, black leaves rotted, and pond beetles skimmed the water.

Paul twisted a tie around the top of the black plastic bag, hoisted it, and made his way down the wooden steps. In the next garden, a chain rattled and a dog whimpered. Paul kicked the garden gate open and backed out. The overstuffed plastic bag banged against his shins and caught on the gate latch. Paul heard it rip. Damn, he said, wrenching the bag free. Once he had squeezed through, he kicked the gate shut behind him. He could smell the crushed ragweed under his sneakers as he backed toward the street. Tired of carrying it, he let the bag drag on the ground, hoping it wouldn’t split. He hated taking the garbage down the narrow, weed-clogged passageway between the houses, but his mother wouldn’t think of letting him take it through the living room.

Suddenly, Paul’s foot struck something and he turned, startled. A chill slithered up his back when he saw the dark shape at his feet. Headlights from a passing car cast a sudden moving light on the gaping mouth and pale face of a man whose head was only inches from Paul’s foot. For an instant, Paul was half-blinded by the sudden light. The next moment, the car disappeared down the street, and the dead man at his feet was again swallowed up by the shadows.

Paul gulped and tried to speak, but at first nothing would come out. Are … are you all right? he whispered, kneeling. He had only meant to touch the man’s shoulder, but he lost his balance and fell against him. The stranger’s head rolled to the side. When Paul pulled away from the man, he realized, horrified, that his hand was damp and sticky.

He backed away and fell against the garbage bag. Scrambling to his feet, he ran to the garden gate and raced up the porch steps. The dog next door howled mournfully, but Paul scarcely noticed. He was dizzy and a loud noise roared in his ears. Somehow he made it to the door and an instant later, stumbled into the brightly lit kitchen. He stood still a moment, breathing heavily. The kitchen clock hummed quietly. He reached out for the counter to steady himself, then turned on the tap and furiously began washing the blood off of his hands.

Ari stepped into the kitchen, twirling a strand of long dark hair around her finger. Guess who Terry Hobbes has a crush on? she sang. Me, me, me, that’s who. He asked Laurie if she thought I liked him. What do you think about that?

Paul turned off the tap and stared at her in disbelief. She seemed to come from a different, more sunlit world. Ari, he whispered, there’s a dead man outside. I touched him.

Her jaw dropped. Are … are you sure?

I kicked him with my foot, said Paul. I was carrying the garbage out, and I kicked him and he never moved, not even when I fell against him.

Mrs. Montclair appeared white-faced at the open kitchen door. What are you saying, Paul?

We’d better call nine-one-one, said Paul. There’s a dead guy right at our gate.

Maybe he’s only passed out, said Mrs. Montclair. I’ll call an ambulance.

Paul exchanged a glance with Ari. He didn’t have to say anything, because Ari could read the grim meaning in his eyes. The man was dead, all right. Paul reached into the kitchen drawer and pulled out a large flashlight. Behind him, he could hear the phone beeping one high note and two low as his mother dialed 911.

Don’t you dare go back outside, Paul Montclair! his mother cried. Don’t you move!

Paul stepped onto the porch and Ari followed him. He could hear his mother speaking excitedly to the 911 operator as Ari closed the door.

You better go back in, Paul told his twin. Mom’s about to have a heart attack. He felt the familiar wooden steps under his sneakers as he played the beam of the flashlight nervously around the overgrown garden in their narrow, fenced backyard. Long shadows leapt to life, and scraggly bits of greenery were bleached by the flashlight’s beam.

You’re not going by yourself, said Ari, clutching his arm. What if the murderer is still out there?

Paul licked his dry lips. Who said the guy was murdered?

You know I can read your mind, Paul. Ari tightened her grip. Don’t try to pull anything over on me. It was a long-standing joke between them that they could read each other’s minds. Sometimes, they actually could.

Paul played the flashlight once more over the yard. No one seemed to be hiding in their garden. But in all the darkness and shadows, who could be sure?

His stomach squeezed painfully when he thought of the corpse, but he made himself push the garden gate open.

Ari slipped through the gate after him. Paul aimed the flashlight at the ground, and the weeds became a nightmare of shadows. Suddenly the strong beam of light rested on the man’s face. The corpse’s blank eyes gleamed in the light, then the beam wobbled. The flashlight rattled to the ground and went dark.

He looks dead to me, said Ari, shivering.

He is dead,’ said Paul. I shone the light right in his face, and his pupils didn’t contract.

Let’s go inside, Paul. I feel sick.

Her twin picked up the flashlight and restlessly clicked its switch several times. Damn. It’s broken. Paul heard the distant sound of a siren. Did you see whether there was any blood on the ground? he asked.

I don’t think there’s much blood, she said, clinging fearfully to her twin. The weeds looked dry.

There’s blood on him, Ari, said Paul. I got it on my hand.

Paul? Ari? Their mother called out the back door.

Ari jerked at Paul’s arm. Let’s go inside, she said. We can’t see anything out here now anyway.

Reluctantly, Paul followed Ari back through the garden gate. He wished he hadn’t been so shaken as to drop his flashlight. Now that he could hear the siren growing closer, he wasn’t nearly as afraid of what might have been lurking in the shadows. It would have been exciting to get a better look at the murder scene.

Their mother, her brow furrowed anxiously, stood at the back door. The police are on their way. What are you two doing out there? Trying to scare me out of my wits? She shooed the twins back into the kitchen and locked the door.

Paul walked into the living room. The siren was wailing close at hand now, and he could see a flashing blue light outside. They’re here. I’d better go show them where the body is, he said.

Paul! wailed Mrs. Montclair. Why can’t you stay put?

Don’t you understand, Mom? asked Paul. It’s as close as we’ll ever get to a real murder investigation. If I hadn’t broken the flashlight, Ari and me might even have found a clue.

Shadowy figures mounted the steps on the front porch. There was a rap on the door, and Paul opened it. Two uniformed policemen confronted him. We got a call from this address, said an officer.

I’m the one that found the body, Paul told them. I was taking out the garbage, and I ran right into him. I’ll show you.

Paul led the police officers to the side of the house. The rotating blue light cast an unearthly glow on the shadowed corpse. A policeman switched on a flashlight and played its beam over the dead body.

A wave of nausea swept over Paul when he saw that the man’s shirt was spattered with dark red blood. I’ve never seen a dead person before, he whispered.

You better go inside, son, said one of the officers. Just give your name to the officer in the patrol car.

Paul went out to the street and gave his name and address to the officer in the patrol car. Do you think it’s the serial killer? Paul asked the officer.

Can’t say at this point. But don’t you worry. We’ll take care of it.

Paul cast a regretful glance over his shoulder but reluctantly went up on the porch. The police didn’t seem to be doing a very good job of tracking the serial killer. According to the newspaper, they didn’t have any leads.

The shadowy figure of the police photographer knelt beside the body. A flash briefly whitened the murder victim’s face.

One of the officers stepped up to the side of the porch and fixed a thin yellow tape to the bannister.

Do you think it’s the serial killer, Officer? asked Paul.

The officer glanced up at him. Hadn’t you better go inside and do your homework? The police officer strung the yellow tape alongside the porch. He pulled it out as far as the street and tied it to the lamppost. "P

OLICE

L

INE

—D

O

NOT

C

ROSS

," it said.

Paul’s mother plucked at him. "Let’s go inside, Paul. You heard the