Many Bloody Returns

Vampire Hours Elaine Viets

Elaine Viets is the author of two mystery series. Murder with Reservations is her sixth Dead-End Job novel. Her third Josie Marcus Mystery Shopper book, Accessory to Murder, will be out this fall. Elaine has won both the Anthony and Agatha Awards for her short stories. “Vampire Hours” is her first vampire story. She lives in Fort Lauderdale, across the water from a condo whose occupants were the inspiration for this story.

“It’s three o’clock in the morning, Katherine. Go to sleep.”

My husband, the surgeon. Eric barked orders even in the middle of the night.

“I can’t sleep,” I said.

“I have to be at the hospital in three hours. Turn off the light. And go see a doctor, will you? You’re a pain in the ass.”

Eric rolled away from me and pulled the pillow over his face.

I turned off the light. I felt like a disobedient child in my own home, as I listened to my husband of twenty-five years snore into his pillow. Eric could fall asleep anywhere, any time. Especially when he was in bed with me.

If I pushed his face into the pillow, could I smother him?

Probably not. Years of late-night emergency calls had given Eric an instant, unnatural alertness.

I lay alone on my side of the vast bed, stiff as a corpse in a coffin. My white negligee seemed more like a shroud than sexy sleepwear. My marriage to Eric was dead, and I knew it. I wanted him to love me, and hated myself for wanting a man so cold.

He wasn’t like that when we were first married. Then, he’d ripped off so many of my nightgowns, he’d bought me a thousand-dollar gift certificate at Victoria’s Secret. I’d model the latest addition and he’d rip it off again. Back then, he didn’t care if he had early surgery. We’d had wild, all-night sex.

A tear slipped down my cheek, and I cursed it. Tears came too easily these days, ever since menopause. “The change,” my mother had called it. Once, before I knew what those changes were, I’d looked forward to menopause. I wanted the monthly flow of blood to stop. I was tired of the bloat, the cramps, and the pain.

But the change was infinitely worse. Oh, the blood stopped, as promised. But nobody told me what would start: the weight gain, no matter how hard I dieted. How could I get fat on rice cakes and lettuce?

The change brought other changes. My skin started to sag along the jaw. The lines from my nose to my lips deepened into trenches. My neck looked like it belonged on a stewing hen.

And my husband, the old rooster, was chasing young chicks. I knew it, but I didn’t dare confront him. I’d seen what happened to my friends when they’d faced down their rich, powerful husbands. Elizabeth, courageous, I-won’t-stand-for-this Elizabeth, had been destroyed. She’d caught Zack, her husband of thirty years, groping some not-so-sweet young thing in the dim lights of the local bar. Elizabeth had fearlessly confronted Zack on the spot. She’d embarrassed him in front of his backslapping cronies.

Good old Zack hired a pinstriped shark—one of his bar buddies. Now the elegant Elizabeth lived in a cramped hotbox of an apartment, with a cat and a rattling air conditioner. She worked as a checker at the supermarket and barely made the rent. Elizabeth was on her feet all day and had the varicose veins to prove it.

I’d taken her out to a dreary lunch last month. I’d wanted to do something nice. We went to the club, where we’d always lunched in the old days, when she was still a member. Some of our friends didn’t recognize her. Poor Elizabeth, with her home-permed hair and unwaxed eyebrows, looked older than her mother. She was so exhausted, she could hardly keep up a conversation.

That same fate awaited me. I had to stall as long as I could, until I could figure out what to do with my life. If Eric dumped me now, I’d be at the supermarket asking my former friends, “Would you like paper or plastic?”

I’d be one more useless, used-up, middle-aged woman.

I was already. In seven days, I’ll be fifty-five years old. My future had never looked bleaker. I had no money and no job skills. My husband didn’t love me anymore. Happy birthday, Katherine.

“Lie still,” Eric snarled. “Quit twitching.”

I didn’t think I’d moved. Maybe Eric felt my inner restlessness. Maybe we were still connected enough for that.

But I couldn’t lie there another moment. Not even to save myself. I slid out of bed.

“Now what? Where are you going at this hour?” Eric demanded.

“I thought I’d get some fresh air. I’m going for a walk.”

Eric sat straight up, his gray hair wild, his long surgeon’s hands clutching the sheet to his hairy chest. “Are you crazy? You want to go outside in the middle of the night? After that woman was murdered two streets away?”

“People get murdered all the time in Fort Lauderdale,” I said.

“Not like that. Some freak drained her blood. They didn’t put that little detail in the papers. The city commission wants to avoid scaring the tourists. Dave at the medical examiner’s office told me. That woman hardly had a drop of blood left in her. She went for a walk at three in the morning and turned up drained dry. For Chrissakes, use your head.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll sit on the balcony. I didn’t want to wake you.”

I put on my peignoir and padded into the living room. I never tired of the view from our condo. To the east was the dark, endless expanse of the Atlantic Ocean, lit by ancient stars. Straight down were the black waters of the Intracoastal. Across the little canal that ran alongside our building were the Dark Harbor condos. Those places started at three million dollars. But it wasn’t the money that fascinated me. Florida had lots of expensive condos. There was something about Dark Harbor. Something mysterious. Exciting. Exotic. Even at three in the morning.

I slid open the glass doors, careful not to make a sound. The warm night air caressed my cheek. I loved the night. Always had. Moon glow was kinder than the harsh Florida sun. I could hear the water softly lapping at the pilings on the dock, seven stories below.

Laughter drifted across the water, and the faint sounds of a chanteuse singing something in French. It was an old Édith Piaf song of love and loss.

There was a party in the Dark Harbor penthouse. Such a glamorous party. The men wore black tie. The women wore sleek black. They looked like me, only better, smoother, thinner. These were people in charge of their futures. They didn’t have my half-life as the soon-to-be-shed wife. They were more alive than I would ever be.

I sighed and turned away from my beautiful neighbors. I drifted back into our bedroom like a lost soul, crawled in next to my unloving husband, and fell into a fitful sleep.

Eric woke me up at five-thirty when he left for the hospital.

“Good-bye,” I said.

His only answer was a slammed door.

That night, while getting ready for bed, I looked in my dressing room mirror and panicked. I’d always had a cute figure, but now it had thickened. I had love handles. Where did those come from? I swear I didn’t have them two days ago. I burst into tears. I couldn’t help it.

I ran into the bathroom to stifle the sobs I knew would irritate Eric. But it was too late. “Now what?” he snarled. “I can’t take these mood swings. Get hormone replacement therapy or something.”

He was definitely getting something. I’d found the Viagra bottle in his drawer when I put away his socks. It was half empty. He wasn’t popping those pills for me. We hadn’t made love in months.

No pill would cure my problem. Not unless I took a whole bunch at once and drifted into the long sleep. That prospect was looking more attractive every day. Didn’t someone say, “The idea is to die young as late as possible”? Time was running out for me.

I spent another restless night, haunting the balcony like a ghost, watching another party across the way at Dark Harbour. Once again, I drifted off to sleep as Eric was getting ready for work.

Tuesday was a brilliant, sunlit day. Even I couldn’t feel gloomy. I was living in paradise. I put on my new Escada outfit—tight black jeans and a white jacket so soft, it was pettable. I smiled into the mirror. I looked good, thanks to top-notch tailoring and a body shaper that nearly strangled my middle.

I didn’t care. It nipped in my waist, lifted my behind, and thrust out my boobs. I sashayed out to the condo garage like a model on a catwalk. A sexy, young model.

I had a charity lunch at the Aldritch Hotel. I was eating—or rather, not eating—lunch to support the Drexal School. I didn’t have any children, but everyone in our circle supported the Drex. As a Drexal Angel, I paid one hundred dollars for a limp chicken Caesar salad and stale rolls.

My silver Jaguar roared up under the hotel portico. A hunky valet raced out to take my keys. The muscular valet ogled my long legs and sensational spike heels, and I felt that little frisson a woman gets when a handsome man thinks she’s hot.

Then his eyes reached my face and I saw his disappointment. The valet didn’t bother to hide it. I was old.

I handed him my keys. The valet tore off my ticket without another glance at me. I felt like he’d ripped my heart in half. I used to be a beauty. Heads would turn when I strutted into a room. Now if anyone stared at me, it was because I had a soup stain on my suit or toilet paper stuck on my shoe. I was becoming invisible.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the hotel’s automatic doors. Who was I kidding in my overpriced, overdressed outfit? I was losing my looks—and my husband.

I stopped in the ladies room to check my makeup. My lipstick had a nasty habit of creeping into the cracks at the lip line. I used my liner pencil, then stopped in a stall, grateful it had a floor-to-ceiling louvered door. I needed extra privacy to wriggle out of the body shaper.

I heard the restroom door open. Two women were talking. One sounded like my best friend, Margaret. The other was my neighbor, Patricia. I’d known them for years. I nearly called out, but they were deep in conversation and I didn’t want to interrupt.

“…such a cliché,” Margaret said, in her rich-girl drawl.

“I can’t believe it,” Patricia said. Her voice was a New York honk. “Eric is boinking his secretary?”

Eric. My husband, Eric? Panic squeezed me tighter than any body shaper. There were lots of Erics.

“Office manager,” Margaret said. “But it’s the same thing. She’s twenty-five, blond, and desperate to catch a doctor. It looks like Eric will let himself get caught.”

“Can you blame him?” Patricia honked. “Katherine’s let herself go.”

Katherine. No, there weren’t many Erics with Katherines. I felt sick. I sat down on the toilet seat and listened.

“She won’t even get an eye job,” Patricia said. “And her own husband is a plastic surgeon. How rejecting is that? Eric did my eyes. Then he did the rest of me.” Her words filled the room. I couldn’t escape them.

“You slept with him?” Margaret sounded mildly shocked.

“Everyone does,” Patricia said.

I could almost hear her shrug. I wanted to rush out and strangle her. I wanted to blacken her stretched eyelids. But I was half-dressed, and my jiggly middle would prove she was right.

“It’s part of the package,” Patricia said. “My skin never looked better than when I was getting Dr. Eric’s special injections.”

“You’re awful,” Margaret said. Then my best friend laughed.

“It’s part of my charm,” Patricia said. “But someone better clue in Katherine, so she can line up a good divorce lawyer before it’s too late.”

“It’s already too late,” Margaret said. “Eric’s already seen the best lawyer in Lauderdale, Jack Kellern.”

“And you didn’t tell Katherine that Eric hired Jack the Ripper?”

“How could I? He’s my husband.”

And you, Margaret, are my best friend. Or rather, you were. Margaret had also had her eyes done by Jack. Did she get the full package, too?

I waited until my faithless friends shut the restroom door. I rocked back and forth on the toilet in stunned misery. It was one thing to suspect your husband was playing around. It was another to learn of his betrayal—and your best friend’s. I was a joke, a laughingstock. I had even less time than I thought.

I pulled my clothes together, pasted on a smile, and found my table. A waitress set my salad in front of me. I studied the woman. She was about my age, with a weary face, limp brown hair, and thick, sensible shoes. This time next year, would I be serving salads to the ladies who lunched?

Only if I were lucky. I didn’t even have the skills to be a waitress. I picked at my salad but couldn’t eat a bite. No one noticed. Well-bred women didn’t have appetites.

A polite clink of silverware on glasses signaled that the headmaster was at the podium. He was a lean man with a good suit and a sycophantic smile.

“You’ve heard that Drexal has one of the finest academic records…” he began. My thoughts soon drifted away.

Menopause had killed my marriage, but it had been dying for a long time. I knew exactly when it had received the fatal wound: the day my husband asked to cut on me.

I was thirty-five, but looked ten years younger. Eric was itching to get out his scalpel and work on my face.

“Just let me do your eyes,” he said, “and take a few tucks. If you start early, you’ll look younger longer.”

“I look fine,” I said.

“You don’t trust me,” he said.

“Of course I do,” I said. “You’re the most successful plastic surgeon in Broward County.”

But not the most skilled. Eric was right. I didn’t trust him. He’d never killed anyone, unlike some Florida face sculptors. But I saw his work everywhere. I could recognize his patients: Caucasian women of a certain age with the telltale Chinese eyes and stretched skin.

Eric gave them face-lifts when no other doctor would. He’d give them as many as seven or eight, until their skin was so tight they could bikini wax their upper lip.

I pleaded fear of anesthesia. I invented an aunt who died from minor surgery when I was a child. But Eric knew the truth: I was afraid to let him touch me. I was his in every way, except one. I would not surrender to his knife.

For ten years, he never stopped trying. He nagged me for a full face-lift at forty. At forty-five, I knew I could probably use one, but still I wouldn’t submit.

“Nothing can make me twenty-five again,” I said. “I’ll take my chances with wrinkles.”

It was the worst rejection a plastic surgeon could have. I made him look bad. Everyone could see my lines and wrinkles. These normal signs of aging became an accusation. They said every woman but his wife believed Eric was a fine surgeon.

When I turned fifty, Eric quit asking. That’s when our hot nights together cooled. I suspected there were other women, but knew the affairs weren’t serious. Now things had changed. Eric was going to marry a twenty-five-year-old blonde. In another five years, she’d submit to his knife.

Suddenly, I was back in the hotel ballroom. The headmaster’s speech had reached its crescendo. “We have almost everything we need to make the Drexal School the finest educational institution in Broward County. Only one thing is missing. After today, we’ll have it all. I’m pleased to announce the creation of the Drexal Panthers—our own football team. Your donations have made it possible.”

The lunching mothers cheered wildly.

I looked down at my plate and realized I’d eaten an entire slice of chocolate cheesecake with raspberry sauce.

Worse, I hadn’t tasted one bite.

No wonder I was fat.

On the way home, I picked up some college catalogues. I made myself a stiff drink and settled into my favorite chair in the great room to study the glossy catalogues. I looked at careers for legal aides, dental assistants, and licensed practical nurses. One choice seemed more depressing than the other.

What had I wanted to be before I met Eric?

An English teacher. Back then, I saw myself teaching poetry to eager young minds, watching them open like flowers with the beauty of the written word. Now, I knew I couldn’t cope with the young ruffians at the public schools. Would the Drexal School hire an Angel down on her luck? Would the headmaster remember how often I’d lunched to make his dream team possible?

If I went back to college, how many years would I need to complete my degree? Would my life experience count for anything? What had I done in fifty-five years?

I fell asleep on the pile of catalogues. I woke up at midnight when I heard Eric unlock the door. I hid the catalogues with my arms, but he never noticed them. Or me. He went straight to bed without even saying good night.

I woke up at three. I couldn’t sleep through the night anymore. I kept vampire hours now. I drifted into the living room and watched the condo across the way. There was another party tonight. This time, the music seemed livelier, the guests more keyed up, more dramatically dressed, as if they were at some special ceremony.

Our condo walls seemed to close in on me. I slipped on my jeans and a cotton shirt. I was going for a walk along the water, even if it killed me. I’d rather risk death than suffocate inside.

The night air was delicious, cool but not cold. I was drawn to the lights of the Dark Harbor party, and picked my way along the docks until I was almost underneath its windows. I couldn’t see anything, but I could feel the contained excitement inside. The walls seemed to pulse with life.

“Wish you were here?”

I jumped at the voice—very rich, very male.

The man who came out of the shadows wore evening dress. His skin looked luminous in the moonlight. His hair was black with a slight curl. There was strength in his face, and a hint of cruelty. I couldn’t tell his age. He seemed beyond such ordinary measures.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to trespass,” I said.

“You aren’t trespassing, Katherine,” he said. “You spend a lot of time watching us, don’t you?”

“Am I that obvious?” I said.

“No,” he said. “But I feel your yearning. It makes you very beautiful—and very vulnerable.”

Inside the condo, there was a shriek of triumph, followed by polite tennis-match applause.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I must return to my guests. My name is Michael, by the way.”

“Will I see you again?” I said.

“If you want to,” he said.

He was gone. Only then did I wonder how he knew my name.

I floated back to my condo wrapped in soft, warm clouds of fantasy. How long had it been since any man had called me beautiful?

I was beautiful. Michael made me feel that way. I crawled into bed beside my husband and dreamed of another man.

In the morning, I woke up smiling and refreshed. For the first time in months, I didn’t check my mirror for more ravages. I didn’t need to. I was beautiful. Michael had said so. I was dreamy as a lovesick teenager, until the phone shattered the sweet silence at eleven a.m.

“Katherine, it’s Patricia.” Of course it was. She’d slept with my husband and confessed it in a public restroom. I’d know her honking voice anywhere. Except today it had a different note. She sounded subdued, even frightened. “Have you heard about Jack?”

“Jack who?” I said.

“Margaret’s Jack. They found his body in the parking lot of his law office early this morning.”

“What happened?” I said. “Was he mugged?”

“They don’t think so,” Patricia said. “The police say the murder didn’t take place there. They think he was abducted.”

“Kidnapped and murdered? But why?” Which wife killed him, I wondered. How many deserted women wished him dead?

“No one knows. But it gets worse. Jack’s body was drained of blood. Completely dry.”

“That’s awful,” I said. “I’ll go see Margaret immediately.”

I hung up the phone quickly, hoping to hide my elation. Jack the Ripper was dead—horribly dead. My husband no longer had a divorce lawyer. I felt a brief stab of shame for my selfish thoughts, but Jack’s death was poetic justice. Someone had sucked the blood out of the city’s biggest bloodsucker. Someone had given me more time.

I put on a navy pantsuit and a long face, and stopped by a smart specialty shop for a cheese tray and a bottle of wine. My long-dead mother would be proud. She’d taught me to bring food to a house of mourning.

There were other cars in Margaret’s driveway, including what looked like unmarked police cars and three silver Lexuses. Lawyers’ cars.

Margaret was a wreck. Her eyes were deeply bagged and swollen. Her jawline sagged nearly as badly as mine. All my husband’s fine work was undone. I felt petty for noticing. She’s a new widow, I told myself. Show some pity.

“Katherine!” Margaret ran weeping into my arms, smearing my jacket with makeup.

“I’m sorry,” I said, patting her nearly fleshless back. I could feel her thin bones. It wasn’t a lie. I was sorry for so many things, including the death of our friendship. Women need the sympathy of our own kind. Margaret had destroyed even that small comfort for me.

“Come into the garden where we can talk,” she said. “The police are searching Jack’s home office. Three lawyers from his firm and a court-appointed guardian are arguing over what papers they can take.”

We sat at an umbrella table near a bubbling fountain. Palms rustled overhead. Impatiens bloomed at our feet. It looked like every other garden in Florida. A Hispanic maid brought iced tea, lemon slices, and two kinds of artificial sweetener.

“May I have sugar, please?” I asked.

“Sugar?” the maid said, as if she’d never heard the word.

“You use sugar?” Margaret might be dazed with grief, but she was still surprised by my request. In our crowd, sleeping with a friend’s husband was a faux pas. Taking sugar in your tea was a serious sin.

“Doctor’s orders,” I said. “Sweeteners are out. Cancer in the family.”

Actually, I liked real sugar. And it was only eighteen calories a spoonful.

“How are you?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Margaret said. Two more tears escaped her swollen eyelids. “I thought Jack was seeing someone, and that’s why he worked late so often these last few weeks. I was furious, but I couldn’t say anything. I was too afraid.”

“I understand,” I said.

She flushed with guilt.

“My husband went to see Jack,” I said. “So I know how you feel.”

Margaret had the grace to say nothing. I appreciated that.

“Do you think Jack’s lover killed him?” I said.

“I don’t know. I don’t even know now if he had a lover. One of the firm’s associates found Jack in the parking lot when she came to work at six this morning. Maybe he really had been working late. I had to identify him. Jack didn’t look dead so much as…empty. Someone took all his blood. It wasn’t some slashing attack. Just two holes in the side of his neck. There were bruises, too. Terrible bruises on his wrists, legs, and shoulders.”

“Was he beaten?” I asked.

“No. They think someone—or maybe more than one person—held him down while he was—while they—” Margaret couldn’t go on.

“Do the police think it was a serial killer?” I asked.

“They won’t say. But the way they’re acting, I know it’s strange. There were other attacks like this in Lauderdale. Jack wasn’t the only person to die like this.”

“No,” I said. “Eric told me that the woman found off of Bayview had been drained dry, too. He heard that from the medical examiner’s office. The police kept it out of the papers.”

“It’s like some nightmare,” Margaret said, “except I can’t wake up. Mindy is flying home this afternoon from college. This will be so hard for our daughter. Mindy idolized her father.” Margaret started weeping again.

I wasn’t sure what to do. If we’d still been friends, I would have folded Margaret in my arms. But she had betrayed me. I knew it, and she knew it.

I was saved by a homicide detective and a lawyer.

“Margaret,” the lawyer said, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we have some more questions about your husband.”

“I’d better go,” I said. “I’ll let myself out.” I air-kissed her cheek. It took all my self-control to keep from running for my car.

Once, I would have called my husband and told him the awful news. Now I didn’t. What could I say? You know that lawyer you hired to strip me of my last dime? The son of a bitch was murdered. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.

I suspected Eric already knew about Jack’s death. He was probably looking for a new bloodsucker.

I spent the afternoon taking calls from Margaret’s shocked friends, pretending to be sad and concerned and hating myself because I couldn’t feel any of it. Instead, I felt oddly excited. I broiled a skinless chicken breast, steamed some broccoli, and waited for my husband to come home.

At eleven o’clock, there was still no sign of Eric. He didn’t bother to phone me. I didn’t humiliate myself by calling around asking for him.

What if he turned up dead, like Jack? I wondered. Then my troubles would be over. I felt guilty even thinking that. But it was true.

At three in the morning, I woke up alone and drenched in sweat. Night sweats, another menopausal delight. I punched my soggy pillow and tried to settle back to sleep. At three-thirty, I gave up. I reached for my jeans, then abandoned that idea. Instead, I pulled out a long, nearly sheer hostess gown that looked glamorous in the soft moonlight.

I wasn’t going for a walk. I was going hunting. For Michael.

There was no party tonight. His condo was dark except for flickering candles in the living room and the opalescent light of a television. Michael was alone, like me. He couldn’t sleep, either.

He was waiting for me down by the Dark Harbor docks. At first, I heard nothing but the gentle slap of the water and the clinking of the halyards as the boats rocked back and forth. It was a peaceful sound. A light breeze ruffled my hair and pressed my gown against my body.

“You dressed for me, didn’t you?” he said.

Michael seemed to appear from nowhere. His white shirt, open at the throat and rolled at the sleeves, glowed in the moonlight. His hair was black as onyx, but so soft. I longed to run my fingers through it.

“Yes,” I said.

His hand touched my hair and traced the line of my neck. I stepped back. It wouldn’t do to seem too eager too soon.

Michael smiled, as if he could read my mind. “You don’t have to play games,” he said.

“I’m not playing games,” I said. “I’m being cautious. I don’t know anything about you. Are you married?”

“My wife has been dead for many years. I live alone.”

“You have such lovely parties.” I couldn’t keep the wistful note out of my voice.

“I have many friends. We enjoy the night.”

“I do, too,” I said. “I’m tired of the Florida sun. It burns the life out of everything.”

“You may be one of us,” Michael said. “I’d like to see more of you, before I go.”

“Go?” The word clutched at my heart. “Where are you going?”

“I’m selling the condo. Nobody stays long in Florida. You know that. Will you be here tomorrow night? May I see you again?”

“Three o’clock,” I said. “Same time, same place.”

There. I’d done it. I’d made a date with another man. My marriage was over, except for the legalities. It was time to face the future. Maybe, if I was lucky, I’d have Michael in my life. If not, I’d find someone else. He’d shown me that I was still attractive. I was grateful for that. I’d let Eric destroy my confidence.

I turned around for one last look, but Michael was gone. Only then did I realize he hadn’t asked if I was married. I wondered if he knew. Or cared.

Eric was waiting for me when I returned, tapping his foot like an impatient parent.

“Where were you?” he said.

“I could ask you the same question,” I said.

“I was with a patient,” he said.

“Administering more special injections?” I said. “Patricia says they’re wonderful for the complexion. I wouldn’t know. It’s been so long I’ve forgotten.”

“You’re certifiable.” Eric turned the attack back on me. He was good at that. “Jack is dead. Murdered! Some freak drank his blood. And you’re roaming the streets at night like an Alzheimer’s patient. I should hire a keeper.”

I should hire a hit man, I thought. But I held in my harsh words. I didn’t need Eric now. I had Michael.

“Good night,” I said. “I’m sleeping in the guest room.”

“You can’t—”

I didn’t stop to hear what I couldn’t do. I locked the guest room door and put fresh sheets on the bed. What I am doing? I wondered. I have a three a.m. rendezvous with a man I don’t know. There’s a murderer running loose in my neighborhood. Yet I’d never felt safer or more at peace. I slept blissfully until ten in the morning. I woke up with just enough time to get ready for my literacy board meeting.

As I walked into the dark paneled board room, I caught snatches of conversation: “he was drained dry…don’t know when they’ll have a funeral…Margaret is devastated.”

All anyone could talk about was Jack’s murder, at least until the board meeting started. Then we had to listen to Nancy blather on about bylaws changes. She’d kept the board tied up with this pointless minutiae for the last eight months.

Once I saw myself as a philanthropist, dispensing our money to improve the lives of the disadvantaged. But I’d sat on too many charity boards. Now I knew how little was possible. Here I was in another endless meeting, listening to a debate about whether the organization’s president should remain a figurehead or have a vote on the board.

How did this debate help one poor child learn to read? I wondered.

“Katherine?”

I looked up. The entire board was staring at me.

“How do you vote on the motion: yes or no?” Nancy asked.

“Yes.” I wasn’t saying yes to the motion, whatever it was. I was saying yes to a new life.

Mercifully, the board meeting was over at noon. I dodged any offers of lunch and went straight home. I spent three hours on the Internet, looking at my career options. Work couldn’t be any worse than board meetings. Then I’d get ready for my date with Michael.

By four that afternoon, I’d decided to become a librarian. It would only take another three years of college. The pay was decent. The benefits were not bad. The job prospects were good. I’d be a useful member of society, which was more than I could say for myself now.

I pushed away the memory of Elizabeth’s dreary apartment and made an appointment with a feminist lawyer. Tomorrow, we would discuss my divorce. Today, I wanted to think about my date with Michael.

I washed my hair, so it would have a soft curl. I applied a mango-honey face mask and swiped Eric’s razor to de-fuzz my legs. Eric hated when I did that. I hoped the dull razor would rip his face off tomorrow morning. I sprayed his shaving cream on my long legs. I was now covered with goo from head to toe. Naturally, the doorbell rang.

Who was that?

I looked out the peephole. A young woman with a cheap blond dye job was on my doorstep. Her skirt was some bright, shiny material, and her tight halter top barely covered her massive breasts. I’d seen her before, at Eric’s office.

“Just a minute,” I called, and quickly wiped off the shaving cream and the mango mask.

When I opened the door, I was hit by a gust of perfume.

“Yes?” I said. “You’re from Eric’s office. Is there a problem?”

“There is.” She boldly walked into my home and sat down on my couch. “My name is Dawn. I’m Eric’s office manager.”

And his lover. The recognition was a punch in the face. Eric was leaving me for this big-titted cliché. I stood there in silence, hoping to make this husband-stealing tramp squirm. She’d have to do the talking.

Dawn came right out with her request. “We want to get married,” she said.

“We?”

“Eric and I.”

“He’s married to me,” I said.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Dawn smiled. She had small, feral teeth, and smooth skin. Eric would revel in that flawless skin. How my husband would love to put a knife into it. He had the gall to try to improve perfection.

“If you make it easy for me, I’ll make it easy for you,” Dawn said. “I’ll make sure you get a nice allowance. You drag us through the courts, and I’ll fight you every step of the way.”

“You’re threatening me in my own living room?” I said.

“It won’t be yours for long,” Dawn said. She looked around at my carefully decorated room. “No wonder Eric doesn’t like to hang here. It’s like a funeral parlor. White couches in Florida. Hello? Can you say corny? This place needs some life.

“Oh, dear, you’ve got some gunk on your forehead. Those do-it-yourself beauty treatments don’t work. Should have gone to your husband for help. You might still have time. But maybe not. He can only do so much.”

I sat there, speechless, while the little slut sauntered past me. I picked up the first thing I could find, a delicate gold-trimmed Limoges dish—a wedding present—and threw it at her. Too late. She’d already shut the door.

The dish shattered with a satisfying sound. Plates, glasses, candy dishes, even a soup tureen followed, until the hall’s marble floor was crunchy with smashed crockery and broken glass. It took me an hour to sweep it up and drop it down the trash chute. I knew Eric wouldn’t miss any of it. He wouldn’t even notice anything was gone. These were the things I loved. I wondered if the slut would be dining off my best china and drinking from my remaining wedding crystal. Over my dead body. Better yet, over hers.

I cleaned off the remnants of the mango-honey mask and shaved my legs with a shaky hand. I had a date with a man at three o’clock in the morning. What kind of time was that? I nicked my leg and watched a small drop of blood well up. Blood.

Three a.m. was a good time for a vampire.

That’s what Michael was, wasn’t he? Who else had drained Jack dry but a vampire? What else could Michael and his sleek, night-loving friends be?

I expected to feel shocked and horrified, but I didn’t. Michael and his friends did me a favor by killing Jack. If they’d killed Eric, I would have been the center of a murder investigation. Instead, they gave me a little more time to arrange my life before it self-destructed.

Was Michael a danger to me? I didn’t think so. If he’d wanted to kill me, he’d had many opportunities. No, Michael wanted more than a quick kill. But what, exactly? His conversation was full of innuendoes, invitations, and explanations.

“I feel your yearning. It makes you very beautiful—and very vulnerable.”

“My wife has been dead for many years. I live alone.”

“I have many friends. We enjoy the night.”

“You may be one of us.”

Michael had told me what he was, if I had listened carefully. Did I want to be one of his beautiful friends? Could I kill other people?

Depends, I thought. I could kill lawyers like Jack, doctors like my husband, and that little bitch who waltzed into my house and claimed my husband like a piece of lost luggage.

I wondered about the other woman who’d been drained dry. Who was she? Did she deserve to die? I didn’t have her name, but I knew the date she’d died and the street where she was found—Forty-seventh, off of Bayview.

A quick Internet search found the story in the Sun-Sentinel. The dead woman was forty-five, divorced, an IRS auditor. Another deserving victim. Another bloodsucker. Eric and I’d been audited one long, hot summer. The IRS found one small error, but the accountant and lawyer bills to defend ourselves were tremendous. We would have had more rights if we’d been accused of murder instead of cheating on our income tax.

Yes, I could kill an IRS auditor. I could hand out justice to the unjust. In my new life, I would punish the wicked. I would be super-woman—invisible by day, fearless by night. That beat being a divorced librarian living in a garden apartment.

I hardly tasted my dinner, I was so excited by my new life. Not that my dinner had much flavor: four ounces of boneless, skinless, joyless chicken and romaine with fat-free dressing.

For dessert, I treated myself to two ounces of dark chocolate and a delicious daydream of Michael. It had been a long time since any man had wanted me. And this man had so much to give me.

I watched the full moon rise and paced my condo. Eric didn’t come home that night. I didn’t expect him to. I was glad. I was in no mood to confront him.

I dug out my favorite black Armani dress. It was specially designed to cover my flaws. The high neck hid the crepe under my chin. The short sleeves disguised the unsightly wings under my arms that no workouts could eliminate. The short hem showed my legs at their best. I put on sexy high-heeled sandals. They were dangerous on the docks, but I was living dangerously these days.

Michael was waiting for me outside my condo. He’d come to me this time. His hair was black as a midnight ocean. His luminous skin was like moonlight on snow. He kissed me, and his lips were soft and surprisingly warm.

“You know who we are, don’t you?” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “I want to be like you.”

“You must be sure. You must have no illusions before you adopt our way of life. You must ask me any questions tonight.”

“Are you immortal?” I said.

“Almost,” he said. “We can be killed by fire, by sunlight, and by wooden stakes through the heart. All natural elements.”

“What about crosses and holy water?”

He laughed. “There were vampires long before there were Christians.”

“What will happen to me? How will I become one of you?”

“I will make you a vampire by giving you my blood. I will take yours. Don’t be frightened. It’s not painful. You’ll find it quite exhilarating. Once the transference is complete, you must make your first kill.”

“Will I change? Will I look different?”

“You’ll look like yourself, only more beautiful. Any wrinkles will vanish. Any physical flaws will disappear. You’ll quickly attain your ideal weight. Our people are never fat.”

Vampirism—the ultimate low-fat diet. I wanted to smile. But suddenly, I couldn’t joke. The changes were profound, and frightening. “I’ll never be able to eat food again.” I felt a sudden desperate pain at what I would have to give up.

“Do you eat now?” Michael said.

The question seemed ridiculous. “Of course,” I said.

“But do you like what you eat? Do you actually hunger for carrot sticks? Do you long for steamed broccoli and romaine with diet dressing?” He put his warm lips next to my ear and whispered, “When was the last time you had food you really wanted?”

I thought of the meals of my youth, when I could eat anything: fried chicken and cheeseburgers, crispy French fries lightly sprinkled with salt, hot fudge sundaes with warm whipped cream, crusty bread and butter.

“You haven’t had any of those in years, have you?” Michael said.

He could read my mind. I knew that now.

“You’ll never experience the pain of dieting again,” he said. “You will have no need for ordinary food. You will drink the food of the gods. Blood is offered to them as a sacrifice. You will take it for your own pleasure. It is a thrill you cannot imagine. You will still hunger, but now you will be satisfied. You are hungry, aren’t you? Even now, after your supper of skinless chicken.”

“Yes.” The pale, pathetic hunk of bird nearly turned my stomach. “I can do good, too,” I said. “I can feed on those who deserve to die.”

His eyes were suddenly darker, and I realized he was angry. “No! You must embrace the dark side like a lover. Any good you do will be accidental.”

“But Jack—” I began.

“When Rosette killed that bloodsucking lawyer, she made a lot of scorned wives happy. But Jack will be mourned by his daughter. Randall killed the IRS agent because she’d been auditing his books. She nearly drove him crazy, and he was innocent. But she was the sole support of her elderly mother. And, irritating though she was, the agent was an honest woman.

“You cannot fool yourself into believing that you will only feed on serial killers or child molesters. That is romantic nonsense.

“You are evil and you must choose it. Your killing will not make the world a better place. We kill for revenge, for sport, for reasons that are impossibly petty. Marissa once killed a dress shop clerk on Las Olas because she wouldn’t wait on her.”

“So you’ve killed more people in Fort Lauderdale than Jack and the IRS agent?” I said.

“Many more,” Michael said. “The details about the other bodies being exsanguinated did not make the papers. The police try to hide that information. When it becomes public, then it’s time for us to leave. That’s why we’re going tomorrow night.”

“What happened to the other bodies?”

Michael said nothing. He didn’t have to. I realized we were looking at the wide black ocean.

“Where will you go when you leave?” I said.

“The south of France,” he said. “I have a cottage by the sea. The air smells of lavender and the sound of the waves is wonderfully soothing.”

A small sigh escaped me. He was offering me such a beautiful life.

“Why me?” I asked. “There are millions of women like me, a little past our prime, abandoned by our husbands.”

“Do you define yourself only by your husband?” he asked. “I don’t think so. Americans have such boring ideas about age. Older cultures celebrate all aspects of a woman’s life. Americans only want youth, which can be the dullest time. I prefer a woman who has lived.

“And you are not like the others. You are strong. You have resisted the lemminglike urge for plastic surgery. It’s became a national obsession, but you fought it, even though it cost you your marriage and your comfortable life. You knew it wasn’t the right choice for you. That takes courage. You know who you are. Do you know what you are?”

For the first time, I knew I was someone special.

He took my hand. “I’d like you to join us,” he said. “I want you. Now that you know, you have only two choices: join us or die.”

“May I have twenty-four hours? I have some loose ends to tie up.”

“Yes. But, remember, no one will believe you if you go to the police. And we will be gone before they can get a search warrant.”

“I would never betray you,” I said. “You’ve already helped me. Did you encourage Rosette to kill Jack? For my sake?”

“I wish I could take credit,” Michael said. “But Jack was her idea. Still, I’m glad it helped you.”

Then he kissed my hand. “You have much to think about,” he said. “I hope you make the right decision.”

I left him feeling oddly lighthearted for a woman whose only choice was death: my real death, the living death of middle age, or the death-in-life of a vampire.

I slept well that night, or what was left of it. Then, at five-thirty, I was awakened by Eric slamming doors and opening drawers. He had four white shirts in plastic bags. I’d picked up those shirts for him from the best laundry in Lauderdale, prepared precisely the way he liked: hangers, no starch.

I sat up groggily in bed. “From now on,” I said, “have your slut pick up your laundry. That’s the last errand I’m running for you.”

“Don’t you dare call Dawn that,” Eric said.

“Dawn! What kind of name is that? Has it dawned on you how trite you are?” My bitterness burst like a lanced boil, and I was screaming like a fishwife. My husband yelled right back.

Our argument was interrupted by a pounding on our front door. Marvin, our condo security guard, was standing on the doorstep. He looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But there have been complaints about the noise.”

We both apologized to the guard. Now my humiliation was complete. Eric walked out a few minutes later, clutching his fresh shirts by the hangers. “You’ll hear from my lawyer,” he said.

That was it. That was how he ended our quarter-century marriage, the day before my birthday.

He’d forgotten that, of course. He couldn’t even say, “I’m sorry, I’ve found someone else.” Eric wasn’t sorry, was he? But he would be.

I watched the sun rise on the last morning of my life. The new morning turned the air a pearlescent pink, and a shimmering fog drifted across the water. White birds skimmed along the Intracoastal.

I will never see this beauty again, I thought. But I didn’t have time to wallow in regret. I had things to do. I stopped at a diner for a last, lavish breakfast. The young, busty waitress was too busy flirting with a table full of businessmen to pay any attention to me. I could hear the cook ringing the bell in the kitchen. When the waitress finally brought my breakfast, the eggs had congealed to rubber and the home fries were coated with grease.

“This food is cold,” I said to the waitress.

“Huh?” she said, as if she’d just noticed me for the first time. Once again, I was the incredible, invisible middle-aged woman.

“I’ll get the cook to warm it up,” she said.

“Never mind,” I said. “I’m not hungry after all.”

I threw some money on the table and left. I’d lost my taste for food.

At ten o’clock, I was weeping in my lawyer’s office. The tears came easily, and they weren’t entirely false. Only the accusations were made up.

“Please help me,” I sobbed. “My husband is divorcing me. He has a new girlfriend and he hates me. They’re fighting about how soon they can get married. I’m in the way. I’m afraid Eric will harm me.”

“Harm you how?” the lawyer said.

She would look perfect on the witness stand during Eric’s murder trial, I thought. She was serious enough for the women to believe her, but sexy enough to get the men’s attention. There was something about her tailored black suit, tightly pulled-back hair, and horn-rimmed glasses that made men wonder what she’d look like without them.

“K-kill me,” I said. “Eric doesn’t let anyone stand in his way.”

“Have there been any threats?” the lawyer said.

“Nothing in front of witnesses,” I said. “But we had a terrible fight this morning, and he said he’d kill me if I didn’t give him a divorce and…I’m so embarrassed. Condo security had to knock on our door.”

“That’s good,” the lawyer said. “I mean, it’s not good, but it will help.”

She made plans to get a restraining order and told me to change the locks. Of course, I would tragically disappear before I could carry out her instructions.

It was after noon when I left the lawyer’s office, my least favorite time of day in Florida. The parking lot was baking in the harsh sun. It showed all the cracks in the buildings and the sidewalks—and in my lips and skin. I won’t miss this, I thought. Not one bit.

I wanted to treat myself to a special dress for this evening, my coming out. I strolled along Las Olas Boulevard, where all the smart shops were. The windows glowed with dresses in dramatic black and fabulous colors.

Black, I thought. Black was the right choice when you’re going to the dark side.

I entered a cool shop. A young saleswoman, who looked like a thinner version of Dawn, was talking to another clerk. They didn’t look up when I came in. They didn’t notice me.

“Excuse me,” I said. “May I have some help?”

The two young women smirked and rolled their eyes, and I understood why Marissa had killed her salesclerk. If I had more time in Lauderdale, I’d come back for this one.

But I didn’t. I bought the first dress I tried on. It didn’t fit quite right. I could see my drooping back in the mirror, the little rolls of fat at my waist. But they would be gone soon. In my new life, this dress would be spectacular.

As I left, I knew I’d made the right decision. Not about the dress. About my life. I would be invisible, but it would be my choice.

I would be powerful.

I would be beautiful forever.

I would get the blood back. It would flow again. It would flow into me, and I would feel the ecstasy. I would not be young, but I didn’t want to be young. The young were vulnerable, trusting, hurting. I never wanted to feel that way again.

I sat in my condo and thought about the rest of the night and the beginning of my new life.

When the sky began to bleed red, I walked once more through my condo, saying good-bye to all my things. It would be easy to give them up. I sat on the balcony until the sun set and the sky turned dark velvet. Then I dressed for my final night.

At midnight, I met Michael down by the docks. He was frighteningly beautiful.

“Have you made your choice?” he said.

“I choose you,” I said.

He kissed me. “I’m so glad,” he whispered. “Everyone is waiting for you. Who will be your first kill?”

“Dawn, Eric’s office manager. The police will find her bloodless body outside his clinic.”

“What about your husband?”

“I’ll let him live. It will be fun to see how he explains his drained and dead girlfriend and his missing wife. I’ll be gone, but I won’t take anything with me—no money from our bank account, no stocks, not even my jewelry. I’ll follow the trial on the Internet from the south of France.”

Michael smiled. “I’m sure we’ll all be entertained by the drama,” he said. “Happy birthday, Katherine.”