"I'll drive," I say, climbing behind the wheel. I must do something. I can no longer sit passively beside Dana while she prowls the streets like a huntress. "This is the last time I let you talk me into going anywhere. Though, I must admit, you are correct about Professor Hardcastle. He's uncommonly arrogant."
"He was actually being super nice to you. He apologized twice. You were kind of being a bitch. You on the rag?"
I haven't had a cycle since I was turned, but I don't tell her this. "My physiological state has nothing to do with my mood." This is, of course, another lie. I feel as if I'm starving to death and it's making me overly sensitive. I stare out the window, trying to ignore Dana's luscious fertility. Night Walkers can't reproduce, but even if we could it wouldn't matter. After all this time, I'm still a virgin.
I lay my foot on the pedal with no idea whatsoever where I'm going. My hands are slightly trembling, whether from hunger or the confrontation with Professor Hardcastle I'm not sure. I can't recall when I've had such a long conversation with anyone besides Dana. Especially not a man.
Most of my partners have been male, but no one likes to work the night shift long, so they change rather frequently. Even those who linger come to accept my reticence. I've worked with men for years who know less about me than Dana has pieced together in six months.
Beside my partners and patients, I mostly come into contact with firemen and police, but they're men of action, not intellect, and so rarely lure me into conversation. Conversation leads to understanding and that leads to connection. From connection arises attachment. I cannot become attached to anyone or anything. This is how I survive.
I am silent and perfectly careful. This bores most people. A few people it intrigues—usually men. They are unused to silent, unknowable women, but after a while they move on. No one has more patience than a Night Walker. For us, a decade might as well be a day.
We circle the town and cross the slow, cold French Broad River then I'm speeding onto the interstate, west toward the Smokies, north toward Mt. Mitchell and back south along the Blue Ridge Parkway, skirting the edge of our territory, but I don't care. The night is dead and I'm starving. Dana's on her phone, compulsively texting a girlfriend in California or some new mystery man, I don't know. The Abominable Snowman could cross our path and she wouldn't notice.
Mountains surround me like granite kingdoms, leaning in, forcing me back toward town. I'm driving fast in aimless circles, trying to outrun memories clashing inside me like demons I don't have the strength to fight. Professor Hardcastle has cracked open the coffin of my past and its ghosts are pouring out. I feel smothered by mountains and darkness. How I long for the wide-open spaces of my youth! Horizons immense as the sea. Endless. But I'm downtown again, boxed in by buildings, crawling down empty streets until I find myself on Ravenscroft and turning onto Church Street.
Easing off the pedal, I glide before a row of glorious Gothic Revival churches fashioned in limestone and brick, whispering of endurance. Eternity. Transcendence. They're all arches and angles, curves and towers straining to heaven. Stained glass that glows in the dark. And suddenly the spirit of Papa is brimming within me, filling me with tears. God, how I miss him! His stern dignity. His iron love.
No one suffers more than he who lives longest.
My sister Emily may have resembled Papa most in temperament, but I was most akin to him in faith. He alone understood how I struggled with God. Even though we disagreed on doctrine, he never challenged my right to free thought or derided my devotion. When Emily scorned my beliefs and Branwell laughed and laughed at my folly, Papa quietly reminded me to trust myself. God speaks to some more than others, he said, and listening is not for the faint of heart.
Why didn't I tell Papa how much I loved him? Why do words fail me at the gravest moments? So many missed opportunities to express my love, I can barely breathe at the thought of it.
I want to revisit the morning my fate was pronounced; the morning the doctor came to the Parsonage for my final diagnosis. We were in the sitting room: Charlotte, her best friend, Ellen, Papa, and me. My family looked so scared. Charlotte was on the verge of collapse and Papa sat still and stoic. Only two weeks earlier, we'd lost Emily and three months before that, Branwell. Now I too stood upon the precipice of extinguishment.
Papa's eyes burned as the doctor listened to my ravaged lungs. After the examination, I was too excited to hold still, and I circled the room with Ellen for support. I could hardly wait for the doctor to speak, so ready was I to shed this mortal skin.
Call me away. There's nothing here that wins my soul to stay.
The doctor spent an interminable time returning his instruments to his bag, no doubt searching for the right words. There were none. Not for Papa or Charlotte. But when he declared my fate, a sudden joy seized me, sweeping through me like elation, quickening my pace as I walked back and forth across the small room.
Death was coming. Soon! I was to be free at last! Just as Emily and I wrote and dreamed. Yet, instead of becoming one with the moors as she wished, I would become one with God, I was certain.
Lord, I'm coming! I cried, silently. Wait for me! I'm coming!
"My dear little Anne," Papa said, catching me as I passed and drawing me to him. Self-absorption had rendered me heedless to his feelings, but now I saw them. He could say no more, but he didn't need to. All his love was poured into those four words.
My dear little Anne.
I paused a moment before resuming my pacing, too full of joy to hold still. But how I wish I could do it over. This time I'd climb upon his knee, wrap my arms around him and kiss his face. "I love you, Papa," I'd say, even as everyone watched. "I love you so much."
He gave us the greatest gift of all: freedom to be ourselves.
I watch the row of churches shrink in the rearview mirror. "I can't believe it's so quiet," I say.
Dana glances at me. "You're the only medic I've ever known who wants to run calls after dark."
"I sleep in the day. When I'm on shift, I expect to work. I've never seen the town this dead before."
"It's the heart of winter. It's freezing. No tourists are here and most sane people are safe inside. Stop wishing calls on us. I've been up all day, starting IVs on geriatrics. A nap would be nice."
The dispatcher comes over the radio. "Rescue 1."
Dana groans. "Anne, you jinxed us!"
I wink at her and pick up the radio. "Rescue 1. Go."
"Respond to the Biltmore for an 18-year-old male. Fall. Possible fracture."
My hand flies over switches as the lights and siren flare. I drive exceedingly fast to the "chateau," an enormous mansion built by George Vanderbilt in the late 1800s so he might more comfortably entertain his friends in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Now that the family trust fund has dried up, the current heirs support the estate through tourism, but at this time of night it is surely closed.
"If I was driving this fast," Dana says, "you'd make me pull over."
It's true, but with my eyes and reflexes I'm a far safer driver. Still, I force myself to slow as we pull onto the estate property. A heavy mist hangs upon the land. We wind for miles down a dramatic drive through naked forest, elegant and dripping in fog while the languorous river slides beside it. The modern world vanishes and we roll deeper into a dreamscape reminiscent of fairy tale castles and hidden slumbering princes. Towering oaks and pines shield the inner sanctum as we curve our way toward the estate's heart.
Against my will, I am awed by the invisibly contrived harmony such outrageous wealth willed into being. At last, the road spills open revealing the property's crown jewel. My breath catches. It is a fairy tale. Gondal and Glass Town and Cinderella. Looming up out of the mist, the Biltmore House with her heavy stone and peaked dormers dwarfs me. Gargoyles peer down at us, watching, guarding.
I almost feel mortal again.
On a walkway that zigs and zags up a high stone wall, I see a blonde teenager in a beanie sitting beside an overturned skateboard with two friends off to one side. Sergeant Atticus Santos is there along with the Biltmore's night watchman and to my great surprise, Professor Hardcastle!
His hair is ragged from the wind, and he wears a high-collared, double-breasted wool coat, navy with brass buttons. It looks old and military. With each breath he takes, the air turns to steam. The little pooch, Woody, stands close beside him in a Kelly green parka with matching booties on his feet.
What in the world are they doing here?
I pull in front of the police car. Santos gives me a piercing look. He is dark and sleekly muscled, caught between black and white, war and peace. His eyes look haunted, as if he has demons and they are winning. Since his first day on the street, he's treated me with a barely concealed hostility I've never understood. Perhaps he finds me unnaturally evasive.
As much as possible, I avoid police. Their work has made them suspicious and given them a finely honed instinct for detecting lies. Santos has been back from the war for years, yet hasn't transitioned from hunting terrorists to running down troublesome teenagers with much grace.
He turns to gaze at Dana as she steps out of the truck, golden and glowing in the flashing lights. Only months ago, she told me she was completely in love with him. Now she flips her flaxen ponytail over a shoulder and ignores Santos, walking past the patient up to the professor. "What are you doing here?" she asks.
"I was on my way to visit a friend when I noticed this young man in need of assistance."
"What were you going to do? Lecture him to death?"
"I've had a bit of medical training and thought I might be able to help."
Dana gives him a skeptical look.
"First aid in the Royal Navy. Nothing extensive, but I'll venture a guess he'll live." He nods to the boy, who is sitting slumped on the curve, looking somewhat abashed but otherwise unharmed.
I'm surprised the professor has a military background. Other than his patrician posture, it's difficult to detect. I thought he was all literature and poetry. How has one man accomplished so much in so few years?
He acknowledges me with a nod, which I ignore.
I walk up to our patient. There is a youthful, rich, athletic look to him. His jeans are ripped at the right knee and I can see that it's scraped, but otherwise undamaged.
I want to throw him in the back of the truck, climb in and sink my teeth into his throat.
The urge shocks me. Stupid, stupid, stupid, not to sip from Lily Anne. By missing my chance to feed, I've put more lives in danger. I cannot continue to assume that calls will keep coming.
Santos walks up. "Old Man Vander here," he says, indicating the night watchman, "caught this kid riding the wall and chased him down. The kid fell as he was evading capture. Need you to check him out for my report."
The night watchman is a sprightly man in his early 50s wearing the dark green uniform of a park ranger. Biltmore Estates above a heraldic emblem is embroidered on a patch over his heart in expensive thread. His snow-white hair is pulled back in a low ponytail and despite the park ranger uniform, his lyrical mustache lends him a marked refinement. I can't help wondering how he chased down a teenage boy on a skateboard.
Vander smiles at me. "Good evening. This young man was trespassing on private property, and as I hope I have made myself perfectly clear to everyone present," he says, pointedly looking at the boys who stare down at their feet, "trespassing on Biltmore grounds will be tolerated under absolutely no circumstances. The next time I catch any one of you riding slipshod over Biltmore stone as if it were common concrete, I shall give you the flouncing of your life and have you incarcerated for as long as legally possible."
Santos nods and glares at the boy.
"I'll take him off your hands," I say, moving to grab the stretcher.
Dana's head jerks up and Santos looks surprised. "You're taking him to the hospital for a scraped knee?"
"It could be cracked. It wouldn't hurt for him to get an x-ray."
Santos squints at me, but I dip my head as I bend to palpate the boy's knee. I rip his jeans open wider so I can get a better look. The muscles of his leg are firm beneath my hand. Everyone watches, including Professor Hardcastle.
"What's your name?" I ask gently.
"Garrick."
"Any pain or tenderness?" I squeeze harder than necessary.
"Ouch!" he cries.
"See," I say to Santos. "Unusual tenderness." I fear he senses the lie. As a mortal girl, I revered honesty and still after all these years deception does not come naturally. This is why I usually remain silent, but it's not always possible to do so.
To my relief, Garrick doesn't argue. I suspect he's grateful he's not being arrested. Quickly, I pull out the stretcher and help him onto it. Then, by myself, I pull it over to the truck and slam it in. I'm being reckless, revealing too much of my strength, but I want to get out of here right away. I'm famished.
Dana is saying something to the professor, clearly flirting. I must admit, I understand her attraction. He is handsome. There is an air of Shelley about him, but with an edge of discipline the Romantic poet never had. Even my sister Emily, immune to male beauty, might not be so blind to William's charms. She craved Shelley so powerfully, called to his spirit so passionately, I worried for her sanity. And she thought my grasp on reality was tenuous because I loved Jesus. Shelley drowned when she was but four-years-old.
I feel the professor's eyes on me and try not to fidget. I have the sensation he sees right through me. His gaze is unsettling. Santos is watching Dana while the professor, deaf to her words, stares my way. It's almost rude.
Rarely have I been looked at so openly and it makes me slightly dizzy. My body tightens, ready to flee. There's something about this man. Woody takes a step toward the truck, and in a flash Hardcastle catches him and holds him lightly in one arm. Woody blinks.
Old Man Vander watches everyone, taking in the entire scene. A cold sweat breaks over my skin. There is too much keen observation here. People are usually heedless to their environment. How is it I've come to be surrounded by the most observant men in town?
Panic starts to grow, beginning in my belly and snaking up my chest. This is how it always begins. This is how I know it's time to leave. Decade after decade I have moved on before people grow too cognizant of my eternal youth. Before they fully grasp my never-failing health. In the past, I never bought property. Never owned pets. I didn't make friends. But now I own an old Victorian house with a cat named Ivanhoe and feel a strange connection to a man I met barely an hour ago.
"Dana," I bark. "Dr. Webb will be waiting." This gets her attention. Ever since the new ER doc arrived, Dana hasn't complained about a single patient transport.
I climb into the back of the truck, but before I can pull the door closed, Santos grabs it, stopping me. His grip is strong, even for a mortal man. He looks at William and motions him over, then puts a hand on his shoulder like he knows him. Old World Professor and New World Cop seem a strange combination, but William is perfectly relaxed under Santos' touch.
Dana is heading to the driver's seat. "Dana," Santos says, stopping her. She gives him an impatient look. "You'll want to hear this."
"I doubt it," she says.
Santos frowns. "You'll want to hear this too, Will, with all the kids you see on campus."
Will? Do they know each other? How? What can they possibly have in common? Santos has spent the last 12 years in the Army. Ten tours of war have left him hypervigilant and angry, a sure sign of PTSD.
Santos takes a deep sigh. "A young girl was killed today. On her way home from the bus stop. Up off Barker road, toward Trust. Someone slit her throat from ear to ear."
My breath stops. Even Dana falls silent and a shadow crosses Will's face. This type of thing doesn't happen here. In Atlanta or Charlotte maybe, but not in our sleepy mountain town. I speak first, "Was she . . . Did he . . .?"
"No evidence of sexual assault. Some bastard just slit her throat and left her there to die. Her parents called her in missing when she never made it home from the bus stop. I went to check it out and found her lying in the dirt, scratch marks in the ground where she clawed at the earth while she bled out."
"How old was she?" the professor asks.
"Just turned 12."
"Dear God, man."
"If any of you come across anything suspicious, let me know."
Santos has that veiled look I've seen on so many men's faces. The look that comes from trying to shove all the horror down and lock it away. The look that shows they're failing.
"I'm sorry you had to see that," I say. "How horrible."
"I've seen worse."
Dana shakes her head. "Worse than a 12-year-old with her neck slit from ear to ear? God, Atticus. No wonder you're so fucked up."
Before anyone can speak, Dana slams the door closed, shutting me in with the patient. I feel her climb into the front seat and we speed off to the hospital. Pulling away, I catch Professor Hardcastle's eye through the rear window. He's looking straight at me with an expression of disturbing intensity. Instinctively, my hand flutters to my face, checking that my glasses are there.
I glance away, turning my attention to the teenage boy sitting compliant before me and swallow as my mouth begins to water.