"You're new, aren't you?" he asks.
"Yes. My name is Lara Adams. Who are you?"
"SeymourDorsten." He offers his hand. "Pleased to meet you."
My flesh encloses his, and I know instantly that this young man will be dead in less than a year. His blood is sickhow can the rest of his body not be? I hold on to his hand a moment too long, and he stares at me quizzically.
"You are strong," he says.
I smile and let go of him. "For a girl?"
He rubs his hand on his side. His illness has startled me. I have bruised him. "I suppose," he says.
"What kind of name isSeymour? It makes you sound like a nerd."
He likes my forthright manner. "I've always hated it. My mother gave it to me,"
"Change it when you get out of high school. Change it to Marlboro or Slade or Bubba or something like that. And lose those glasses. You should be wearing contacts. I bet your mother even buys your clothes."
I am a revelation toSeymour. He laughs. "She does. But since I am a nerd, shouldn't I look the part?"
"You think you're a nerd because you think you're so smart. I'm a lot smarter than you and I look great." I gesture to our bows and arrows. "Where should we shoot these things?"
"I think it would be best if we shot them at the targets," he says wisely.
So that's what we do. A few minutes later we are at one end of the football field sending our arrows flying toward the targets that have been arranged in a neat row on the fifty-yard line. I impressSeymourwhen I hit the bull's-eye three times in a row. He is further impressed when we go to remove the arrows from the target and they are stuck in so deep he has to use all his strength to pull them out. He does not know that I could have split the shaft of my first arrow with the next two if I had wished. I am showing off, I know, and it is probably not the wisest thing to do, but I don't care. My mood this day is frivolous. My first day of high school. First happy thoughts about Ray and Pat and now I have taken an immediate liking toSeymour. I help him pull the arrows from the target.
"You have shot before," he says.
"Yes. I was trained by a master marksman."
He pulls out the last arrow and almost falls to the ground as it comes loose. "You should be in the Olympics."
I shrug as we walk back toward the goal posts. "I have no interest," I say.
Seymournods. "I feel the same way about mathematics. I'm great at it, but it bores me to death."
"What does interest you?"
"Writing."
"What do you like to write?"
"I don't know yet. The strange and unusual fascinates me." He pauses. "I read a lot of horror books. Do you like horror?"
"Yes." I start to make a joke of his question, something about how close it is to my heart, but a feeling of deja vu sweeps over me. The feeling startles me, for I haven't had it in centuries. The sensation is intense; I put a hand to my head to steady myself, while searching for the source of it.Seymourreaches out to help, and once more I feel the sickness flowing beneath his skin. I am not sure of the nature of his disease, but I have a good idea what it is.
"Are you all right?" he asks me.
"Yes." A cool film of sweat has gathered on my forehead, and I wipe it away. My sweat is clear, not tinted pink, as it becomes when I drink large quantities of human blood. The sun burns bright in the sky arid I lower my head.Seymourcontinues to watch me. Suddenly I feel as if he has come so close to me his body is actually overlapping mine. Like the deja vu, I do not like the sensation. I wonder if I have developed a greater sensitivity to the sun. I have not been out like this, atmidday, in many years.
"I feel as if I've met you before," he says softly, puzzled.
"I feel the same way," I say honestly, the truth of the matter finally striking me. Already I have said how I can sense emotions, and that is true. The ability came to me slowly as the centuries of my life passed. At first I assumed it was because of my intense observatory faculties, and I still feel that is part of it. Yet I can sense a person's feelings even without studying them closely, and the ability baffles me to this day because it suggests a sense that is nonphysical, which I am not yet ready to accept.
I am not alone with this ability. Over time I have met the occasional human who was as sensitive as I.
Indeed, I have killed several of them because they alone could sense what I was, or rather, what I was not. Not human. Something else, they would tell their friends, something dangerous. I killed them, but I did not want to because they alone could understand me. I sense now thatSeymouris one of these humans. The feeling is further confirmed when once more I pick up my bow and arrow and aim at the target. For my vision is distracted. Mr. Castro stands in the distance behind the school gymnasium, talking to a perky blond. Talking and touchingobviously making a move on the young thing. The teacher is perhaps three hundred yards distant, but for me, with a bow in my strong arms, he is within range. As I toy with my next arrow, I think that I can shoot him in the chest and no one will knowor believethat it was really me who killed him. I can make it so that evenSeymourdoesn't see where the arrow flies. Killing Mr. Riley two nights earlier has awakened in me the desire to kill again. Truly, violence does beget violence, at least for a vampirenothing quite satisfies as does the sight of blood, except for the taste of it.
I slip the arrow into the bow.
My eyes narrow.
Castro strokes the girl's hair..
Yet out of the comer of my eye I noticeSeymourwatching me.
Seeing what? Sensing what? The blood fever in me?
Perhaps. His next word is revealing.
"Don't," he says.
My aim wavers. I am amazed.Seymourknows I am thinking about killing Castro! Who is thisSeymour, I ask myself? I lower my bow and look over at him. I have to ask.
"Don't what?" I say.
His eyes, magnified behind their glasses, stare at me. "You don't want to shoot anybody."
I laugh out loud, although his remark chills me. "What makes you think I want to shoot somebody?"
He smiles and relaxes a notch. My innocent tone has done its work on him. Perhaps. I wonder ifSeymouris one of those rare mortals who can fool even me.
"I just had the feeling you were going to," he says. "I'm sorry."
"Do I look so dangerous?"