Blood Drive

He smiles.

I leave Culebra with a wave. The next time I see him will be the next time the hunger strikes. I won’t miss the lectures.

My car is parked just outside the saloon. One dusty, slouching, wooden building in a street full of them. It’s an hour’s drive from the border yet no one ever ventures here uninvited. I suspect Culebra has cast some kind of protective spell over the place.

Another of those things I would have thought preposterous three months ago, when I was human.

I set off for the border with a glance at my watch. Culebra was right. My folks live on Mt.Helix, a bedroom community east of San Diego. They’re expecting me at six and I’ll be cutting it close. I press my foot down on the accelerator and let the Jag have its head. We race a fu

I look back in the rear view mirror and see Culebra standing alone on the sidewalk, one hand raised in farewell.

Chapter Two

My mother eyes me over the rim of her coffee cup. “A

I almost choke on a mouthful of coffee. I’m on the ultimate low-carb diet. I put on a bright smile. “Of course not, Mom. I told you. I had a late lunch.”

But I can tell she doesn’t believe me. She’s a high school principal who has observed firsthand the symptoms of anorexia and bulimia. I think she might be concerned that I’m on the same path as her teenaged students. In three months I’ve lost twenty pounds. I can’t check my appearance in the mirror, but my body feels harder, leaner, more efficient. My business partner, David, has commented on it, too. He attributes it to stricter workouts.

I attribute it to a liquid protein diet. Not something I can share with any human.

But now my dad chimes in. “Leave her alone, Anita. She looks fine to me. She’s trimmed down, that’s all. She’s been working out.” He sends a pointed glance my mother’s way. “Something we should try. Too much pasta and not enough exercise in this family. A

I smile at him, squeezing his hand. He looks tan and relaxed and very dapper this evening in gray slacks and a pink polo shirt. His thick silver hair is brushed back and with a pair of reading glasses perched on the top of his head, he looks like the prosperous investment banker he is.

“You should talk,” my mother scolds. “Eighteen holes once or twice a week in a golf cart hardly qualifies as a rigorous exercise regime.”

It’s a familiar theme. Both my parents tend to eschew physical exercise and yet at sixty, my mother is the most beautiful woman I know. She’s five foot five, small-boned and slender. Her honey-colored hair is touched with silver and falls in a smooth, straight sweep to her shoulders.

Physically, we’re not so dissimilar-same color hair and hazel eyes. But she has a natural grace about her that shines from within and without. I, however, inherited my father’s more earthy temperament along with his thick, curly hair. Just as well, really, since I can’t use a mirror anymore. Being able to go out in the sun enables me to keep color in my cheeks, so finger combing my hair after a shower and a little dab of lipstick is the extent of my primping nowadays.

Chalk that one up on the plus side to becoming a vampire.

My dad’s voice brings me back. “I drove by the cottage the other day, A

My smile is wide and genuine. “Next week. The finishing work is all that’s left. Kitchen cabinets, a few baseboards. I’ve ordered furniture. When the contractor gives me the word, I’ll call the store and arrange delivery.”

“And the police don’t know who set the fire?”

I look down at my coffee cup, toying with it a moment before answering. I know who set the fire. And I exacted my own justice. But that’s not something I can share.

“The police think it was some kids,” I lied. Something else I’ve gotten very good at. “Anyway, the insurance came through and the cottage is rebuilt, so I’m not going to dwell on who did it. I get too angry when I think about it.” That part, at least, is true.

The telephone rings just then and my mother rises to answer it, patting my shoulder as she moves past. I rise with her and gather dishes to take to the sink. It gives me a chance to scrape the garlic-laden pasta sauce off my plate and into the disposal without anyone noticing the gag reflex that threatens to overwhelm me. I’m getting better at hiding such things, but I have to come up with a reason that will gently convince my mother to fix something other than pasta when I come to di

An allergy to tomato sauce maybe?

I’m loading the dishwasher when she comes back into the room. An inquisitive frown tugs at the corners of her mouth.

“A

It takes me a moment to recall the name. When I do, it’s with a jolt. “Steve’s girlfriend from Cornell?”

She nods. “Yes.” She picks up a sponge and starts wiping the counter. But I know she’s shaken. My brother was eighteen when he died, two years older than me, struck by a drunk driver on his way to classes at Cornell University. It was fourteen years ago, but the pain from that kind of wound never heals.

My dad has risen from the table, dishes in hand, and he joins us by the sink. “What about her?”

Mom tilts her head. “She’s here in town. She called to get your telephone number, A

Her a

Why would a friend of my brother’s, a woman I met only once fourteen years ago, want to get in touch with me?

I turn back to the sink, busying myself with the cleanup, afraid the quiet, comfortable evening I envisioned spending with my folks is about to spiral into something quite different.

Chapter Three

It’s been a long time, but the mental picture I have of Carolyn Delaney is sharp. She was a petite, blue-eyed blonde who possessed a smile that dazzled. She had a radiant, bubbly personality, and she was a cheerleader no less. Couple all that with the fact that Steve was obviously head over heels in love, it’s no wonder I hated her on sight.

But to make matters worse, Carolyn exuded sexuality. Not the high school, fumbling, experimental kind of sexuality I happened to be experiencing at the time, but the real thing. I was only sixteen, but I could tell she and Steve were sleeping together. Until he went away to college, I was the sole object of Steve’s affection-brotherly, to be sure-but that was what he told me. With Carolyn, I knew her hold on my brother went way beyond anything I could compete with.

Like a whirlwind, all that spins through my head now as I prepare myself to come face to face with the female who usurped my place in my brother’s heart all those years ago. I expect it will rankle, especially since she hadn’t had the grace to come to Steve’s funeral.

When Mom ushers her into living room, though, all that is forgotten. The woman standing in front of us bears no resemblance to the coed. The years have not been kind to Carolyn Delaney. She’s overweight, with the boxy, waistless figure of a woman who hasn’t seen the inside of a gym since college. She’s wearing baggy jeans and an oversized gray sweatshirt that reaches almost to her knees. A tote bag the size of a small suitcase dangles from one shoulder. Her platinum blonde hair has faded to dishwater, and the once sparkling eyes turn down at the corners, as if a lifetime of frowning has left them in a perpetual slump. The smile is vanished, gone without a trace.