LUCK WAS WITH me and I managed to avoid the notice of cops looking for speeders, arriving in Cincinnati with enough time to spare to find a place to stay. The best protection was with the herd, so I checked into one of the bigger and busier downtown hotels under a phony name. The Buick disappeared into a distant parking lot with a lot of other late-model cars.

A sleepy bellhop manhandled the trunk into a modest single with a bath.

I dispatched him with a fair tip and hung out a sign to ward off the maid. My suit and body both felt rumpled from the long drive. I wanted a hot bath, a quick shave, and the inside of my trunk, and got them in short order.

Sunset seemed to come again a few seconds after I closed the lid. While in my earth there was no sense of time passing, but the day had gone by as usual, since I felt rested and alert. I was in fresh clothes, checked out, and in my car in record time. My goal was to be back in Chicago that same night, so I hurried now.

What was left of my grandfather's farm wasn't too far from the city, but owing to the twists of the road, it was still fairly isolated. Once I turned off the farm-market road and onto the weedy ruts that led to the house, the trees closed in, and it was like going back in time. The Buick was a noisy intruder into a simpler and slower age, so I cut the motor and walked the rest of the way with Escott's sandbags in one hand and the new shovel and some rope in the other.

The place hadn't changed since my last visit in August. It still looked forlorn and overgrown, but not completely neglected. My father came out occasionally to check on things. He kept the grass trimmed in the little graveyard where we'd been burying our own for the last seventy-five years. The house was boarded up. It would have looked sinister except for the neat paint job. Even the three-seater outhouse in back had gotten a coat against the winter. It was as though it had only been temporarily closed for the season and the family would return in the spring.

I went to the cemetery. The earth near the big oak tree was vaguely scarred from my last expedition for soil, but not so much that the casual eye would notice. As before, I cleared another large area of fallen leaves and began scooping an inch of topsoil off and into the bags. I could have dug deeper, but that would leave definite signs, and I had no desire to accidentally include earthworms in my booty.

Whether dirt specifically from the family cemetery was necessary for me to survive had been a question in my mind for quite a while. My prior researches indicated that all vampires must be in their graves by dawn, and had I truly died, my body would certainly be resting here with the other Flemings. I suppose any of the earth in the immediate vicinity would have been suitable, but there was no time for experiments. I had a traditional turn of mind, anyway.

As I worked, my mind was already on the road, retracing the route back to Chicago and deciding which places to stop for gas. I vaguely wondered if I would again be plagued by Matheus Webber and James Braxton. They were worrying, but there wasn't much I could do about them until I could get their names to Escott. Hopefully he might be able to trace them down in New York while he was there, then I might remember where I'd met Braxton--

The work and thought were interrupted by several heavy objects slamming against my body like cannonballs and knocking me flat.

Two hard things caught me full in the chest, and a third had cracked against my head. In the very brief time between impact and hitting the ground I decided they were large rocks and that somebody really had it in for me.

The last rock must have been the size of a brick, but I hadn't been killed, or even concussed. There are undeniable advantages to being supernatural.

My body fell back and rolled. I glimpsed a whirl of leaves and branches that abruptly faded to gray and then to nothing. My body had taken things over again and I'd dematerialized from the shock of the sudden pain. No emergency called me back, so I remained disembodied and was glad of it. Floating upward until safely within the concealing branches of the oak, I slowly re-formed, arms and legs wrapped around one of the big limbs.

I was about thirty feet up, and once solid, had to endure a few bad moments of recovery. My head was the worst, I had to cling with my eyes squeezed tight until the dizziness passed. I hate heights.

While hiding in the tree and counting my blessings, developments were taking place below. Three foreshortened figures came into view and prowled uncertainly around my excavation. They were rough-looking men, each with a rock in one hand and a big stick in the other. Had I not vanished immediately they would have probably followed up with those clubs. The clubs were of wood and would have succeeded whore rock had failed.

My headache rapidly subsided as I became interested in finding out who these guys were and why they'd attacked me out of the blue. Perhaps then I would work off the chagrin of being taken by surprise. They must have been hiding out the whole time I was digging, or else I'd have heard them sneaking up.

One of them cast around like a dog for a lost scent. "He musta rolled away fast after we hit 'em," he told the others. They agreed and made a swift search under the oak, then spread out among the grave markers.

"You sure we hit "em?" asked one.

"Din' you keep your eyes open? We all hit 'em square. I know we did.

Din' we, Bob?"

Bob grunted something affirmative and made a quick leap to look behind the big piece of carved granite over my grandfather's grave. It was the only possible hiding place, the rest of the stone markers being too small. They circled back to the sandbags and kicked at them curiously.

"What you suppose he was diggin' for. Rich?"

"How the hell should I know?" Rich was upset that I was missing. He looked at the oak tree, his eyes traveling up the trunk toward me. I kept still, knowing he couldn't see me in the darkness among the leaves.

"Go check his car," he told Bob. "Mebee he got some stuff we can use."

Fugitives from a local Hooverville or tramps off of any of the trains that passed through the city, they'd been looking for someone to rob, and I'd been handy.

Bob was lumbering off to the car. The keys were still inside. I'd felt safe being back home, after all. Vanishing, I floated in Bob's direction, tracking the crunch his feet made on the gravel and old leaves. He was almost to the car when I re-formed in front of his startled face and gently knocked him out.

He was a gaunt, rawboned specimen and I'd have felt sorry for him had it not been for those well-aimed stones. Proving assault against them would be impossible, but I was, or at least I felt like, an outraged homeowner and they were trespassing.

I sandwiched Bob into one of the road ruts in front of the car, which gave me an idea: it was more of a childish impulse, but irresistible.

Rich and his pal separated, looking for my missing body and puzzling over the odd situation. It was easy to wait for a convenient moment and take the pal from behind. His unconscious body went next to Bob's in the adjoining rut. For an artistic effect, I folded their arms funeral style and decorated each with a large weed, as though it were a lily. When things were ready, I tooted the horn a couple times, turned on the headlights, then ducked into the cover of the trees.

Rich didn't delay investigating. He was complaining about the noise in a few short, coarse words, which trailed off when he saw his friends lying neatly in the ruts. He went on guard, held his stick at a threatening angle, and listened. It seemed a shame to disappoint him, so I threw a fist-sized stone at his legs. His yelp was more of surprise than pain, and he hopped to one side before twisting to face me.

I wasn't there anymore. By vanishing and shifting around I could move without being detected. In the darkness outside the glare of the headlights I was all but invisible by simply standing still. Re-forming a short toss behind him, I bounced another stone, this time off his butt. He had no appreciation for my marksmanship, though, and came charging at me with his stick. While he viciously assaulted the foliage, I moved back to the first hiding place and gave him another volley of rocks.

Not surprisingly, he got tired of this very quickly and bolted for the road, urged on by several parting shots. I couldn't let him leave without a personal good-bye and made a point to appear directly in his path. He had no time to stop and we connected solidly. He dropped, the breath knocked out of him. but he quickly recovered and took a swing at me with the stick. I went to a partially solid state and it passed right through, which was not what he expected. He stared at the stick, then at me, and tried again and failed. That was one too many and he ran away.

That didn't work, either.

I caught him at the front gate, swung him around, and pressed him face first against the bole of a tree, making sure he got well acquainted with the bark.

"Lemme go, I din' do nuthin'!"

He struggled, but I had him firmly pinned and he eventually stopped.

There had been a lot more fight in little Selma Jenks.

"Okay, I'll do what you want!" This was indistinct, as his mouth was mashed into the bark.

I whipped him around. He knew he was in trouble as his feet left the earth. I held him up by his stinking clothes, with his toes swinging free in the air.

"How long you creeps been here?"

"C-couple days."

"How'd you find this place?"

"Mailbox--sign on it says it's safe here."

"You're gonna change that, understand? It ain't safe anymore."

"Yeah--whatever you want."

My next action was pure show-off, but it also served to drive home the point that I was more than capable of handling him. I forced him over double and snaked an arm around his midsection. He was too dumbfounded to vocalize a protest as his feet left the ground again and he was carried like a sack of flour along the road to the mailbox. There, he eradicated a symbol scratched on the post and substituted another that meant "keep away" to any other bums that might happen by.

"That okay?"

He wasn't getting any pats on the head from me. We locked eyes and I gave him a few choice words of advice, nothing as specific as those I shared with Selma, but along similar lines. I last saw him pelting for Cleveland at a dead run. If he kept up the pace he'd make it by morning.

His pals looked like they'd be out for some time, so I left them and had a good look around the house and barn. The barn was untouched, but the house had been broken into via a back window. Through it I could see signs of recent and very messy occupancy. This discovery inspired a lot of violent thoughts aimed at the two remaining bums. The only thing to do would be to give the cops an anonymous call and ask them to come out.

They in turn would contact my father; by that time the bums would be gone, which was probably just as well. If Dad had come out for a visit alone, he might have been the one assaulted, not me. That idea had set my blood to boiling when I'd been talking to Rich, and now I stalked back to revive his two friends.

A little shaking did the trick, and I gave them no chance to run away. I had their full attention as I picked up the discarded clubs. They were heavy and hard, like baseball bats, but not so thick that I couldn't get my hands around them. I held them out front, making sure my guests had a good view.

"You boys get out and stay out, or I'll break your necks." At that I snapped the clubs in two with a sharp movement. The men were impressed, but didn't stay for an encore. If anything, they moved even faster than their leader as they ran for the road.

Satisfied, I threw the wood shards away and went back to my unfinished work.

Like a lot of chores, the digging took longer than anticipated and, coupled with the delay of dealing with the tramps, severely cut into my travel time. I could have probably made it all the way to Chicago the same night, but not without a lot of speeding. Allowing for state cops, unexpected flat tires.

washed-out bridges, and other hazards, I could still easily make it to Indianapolis with a comfortable margin of time.

With the last dusty bag tied up and stowed in the trunk, I drove back to town in search of a phone, turning one up at a gas station. While a kid in greasy overalls fed the tank, I made a call to the Cincinnati police.

After giving them the name of another farming family on the same road, I extracted a promise from them to investigate and. if necessary, roust the tramps from the Fleming place. They were given the impression the intruders were still there because it would do no harm for them to be cautious. I gave them my dad's name and number so they could inform the owner, and hung up.

Having the time and inclination, I decided to indulge in some nostalgia and drive through my old neighborhood. I needed some reassurance that the haunts of my youth were still there, still in use by another generation of kids.

I wasn't going to visit my parents, only look at the house and drive on.

Visiting them would have been too complicated and painful. I'd be expected to stay the night and stuff myself with food and there was no way I could fob them off with some light excuse. I could also be honest and tell them the truth about myself and hope they'd understand and accept it, but that was something I absolutely was not ready to try yet.

Dad had moved off the farm years ago to be closer to the store he owned and to give Mom her long-coveted indoor plumbing. Their neighborhood looked smaller and dowdier to my eyes now, but still homey. There was ample evidence that the radio had not yet destroyed the quality of family life as had been predicted. There were plenty of people lounging on their front porches, seeking a cool breeze from the darkness. Windows were open and shades were up, their softly lit squares revealing a minute glimpse into other lives. I observed each with the detached interest of a gallery patron.

The detachment evaporated the second I saw the black Lincoln parked in front of my parents' house. Now I was really angry. They could follow and harass me, but not my family. I braked and was out of the car and halfway up the walk before common sense took over and counseled caution.

My sudden appearance at the front door might send Braxton into a fit of cross-waving hysterics, which was the last thing my mother needed.

Crossing the yard, I stationed myself in the bushes just under the open parlor window. Like most families, our friends usually ended up in the kitchen for their visits; strangers were shown to the more formal parlor. Mom was running to form, and through the gossamer curtains of the open window I could see them all, and my sensitive hearing picked up every word. Braxton and Webber had apparently only arrived and were just settling in for a talk. Braxton was doing most of it, the padded and polite kind of speech reserved for people that you want something from.

None of it impressed my father, for he dealt with salesmen every day.

"Mr. Braxton, you said you wanted to talk with us about Jack," he said, interrupting the flow of words.

"Indeed, yes, Mr. Fleming." Braxton's voice was smoother and more cultured than I'd thought possible, no longer strident with vanity or fear. It was that persuasive tone that kicked my memory into gear. "How long has it been since you last heard from him?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"At the moment that might be difficult to explain."

"He sent us a postcard just this week," said my mother.

"Did he mention anything unusual?"

"Like what?" asked Dad.

"An odd experience, perhaps?"

Mom was worried now. "Why do you ask? Has something happened to him? What is it?"

"Please, Mrs. Fleming, so far as we know he is all right and we are doing our best to see that he remains so."

Dad's temper was starting to flare. "Out with the story, Mr. Braxton."

"Of course, of course. Your son, unknown to himself, may have gotten into some trouble when he moved to Chicago."

"How so? What kind of trouble?"

"When he lived in New York he often wrote stories on the criminal element there for his paper. He had access to information sources that they would like to see eliminated, what we call informants and the like.

Some of these criminals became very suspicious at his sudden departure and they are anxious to find out why he left. Matheus and I must talk with him about this and we must see him personally."

"His moving was hardly sudden," said Mom. "Besides, he moved nearly a month ago."

"Yes, unfortunately certain individuals from the underworld were arrested at the same time, and they are blaming him for their capture.

Whether he was responsible or not makes little difference to them."

There was a pause as Mom and Dad exchanged worried looks.

"Then we have to warn him, send him a telegram or something," said Dad.

"No, you must not do that, such things can be intercepted. I know that from experience."

"What experience?"

"I work for the government; I must ask you to keep this meeting secret, of course."

"Government?" Mom echoed uncertainly.

"Here, my identification."

Dad looked at something Braxton passed to him. "You don't look like a G-man--neither of you," he added, to include Matheus, who was being very quiet about things.

Braxton chuckled easily. "None of us really do. For instance, young Webber here is one of our trainees. This is his first assignment, you know, so you see there is no real danger involved, but that does not lessen the importance of what we are doing. We must make contact with your son as soon as possible. We have to warn him about what is going on."

"We'll call him, then."

"I'm afraid he's no longer at the place he was living in. He moved out last night and we were only able to trace him part of the way here."

"He's coming home, then?" Dad was puzzled.

"Possibly, perhaps he learned of the trouble independently from us and he may try hiding out from them here."

"Or at the farm--no one would think to look for him there," Mom said helpfully. I groaned inside.

"Farm?"

Dad began explaining about the farm, with Braxton avidly listening, and I could see the next question coming a mile off. They didn't need to be nosing around my home earth and learning of my excavations. Before things could go further, I picked up one of the whitewashed stones that divided the lawn from the bushes and sent it crashing through the parlor window.

Mom screamed and I was sorry for that, but I wanted those bozos out of the house, where I could deal with them. Dad was roaring mad and the first one out the front door, with Braxton and Webber at his heels. But I wasn't hanging around, and bolted for the Lincoln. Opening the driver's door, I released the hand brake and pushed. It wasn't so dark that they couldn't see their car moving off by itself.

Matheus noticed, yelled, and gave chase. I had a good lead; he was out of shape and Braxton on the arthritic side. It was a good block's run before they caught up with the car. I ducked low, seeping into the backseat, and waited for them. They were both wheezing when they tore the doors open. There was no sign of Dad. They'd left him back in the yard looking in the bushes for the vandal.

"I'm sure I set the brake," Matheus insisted in reply to Braxton's irritated question.

"Well, start it up and let's get back there. I almost had him."

"But who broke the window?"

"I did," I said, leaning forward to clamp a hand over their mouths. For once the lack of an image in the rearview mirror had worked in my favor.

They gave only a token struggle--I was strong and they were pretty winded after their dash to the car.

"I told you to go back to New York," I reminded them.

Braxton mumphed something loud and defiant. He squirmed and twisted, trying to get something from his pants pocket. I could guess he was after his cross again and shifted my hand until it was over his nose. He was already short of oxygen, in a few seconds he was weakly trying to tear free.

"You gonna behave?" I asked him.

He mewed desperately down in his throat and I eased off just enough so he could breathe.

I looked at Matheus, who was too scared to move. "Okay, kid, you drive to my directions, understand?"

He gurgled.

"You drive nice, or I'll break the geezer's neck."

Another gurgle. It sounded like an affirmative.

I let the kid go and he started the car without any argument.

He seemed used to taking orders. Our drive was not a cordial one, and out of necessity I was forced to keep both hands tight on Braxton--one over his mouth and the other encircling his wrists. After several miles I was feeling very cramped.

We drove northeast until I judged that the distance was enough to keep them busy, then had the kid stop. He was visibly trembling and Braxton was sweating bullets. The area was well clear of the city, dark and deserted. They must have concluded that I was going to kill them and leave the bodies in a roadside ditch. It was tempting, but only as a joke. Instead I pushed them out of the car, got behind the wheel, and turned the big machine back toward the city. They gave an angry and halfhearted chase, but were easily left behind in the exhaust fumes.

If they got lucky they might turn up a ride in Montgomery, but in the meantime I planned to head for Indianapolis.

I left their car parked across the street from a fire station and had a brisk walk back to my own. By this time the neighborhood had settled down. The lights were still on in my parents' house, but the rest were dark, their occupants sensibly asleep. Dad had nailed a board over the broken window. I rolled quietly away to look for another telephone.

Dad answered on the first ring and I blandly said hello.

"Jack!" He sounded excited.

"Is something wrong?" I asked innocently.

"I'll say there is." He gave me a slightly garbled account of what had happened earlier and wanted to know if I knew there were some gangsters after me.

"Wait a minute." I tried to sound skeptical. It wasn't hard. "How do you know these guys were G-men?"

"He had an identification card, it said he was with the FBI."

"Those can be printed up by the hundreds in any joke shop. What did they look like? Was it a little guy and a chubby kid with bad skin?"

"That's them."

"Dad, I hate to say it, but you've been had."

"What d'ya mean?"

"I did a story on those fish last year. They're a couple of con men.

Because of me, the cops went after them, a lot of their victims turned up in court, and these guys got sent up. Did they try talking you into buying anything?"

"No, they wanted to know where you were, and then someone broke the window--"

"That was the third man in their team. They'll be coming back and trying to sell you some kind of phony U.S. government insurance"

I gave Dad an imaginative account of their criminal career, stating that Braxton was a dangerous crazy and that he and Webber indulged in some bizarre sexual practices. Then I held my breath to see if he believed it, because I'd always been a lousy liar.

Dad said a few well-chosen obscenities, but they were directed at his recent guests, not me.

"Watch out for them," I suggested enthusiastically. "The little one's a real weasel when he's cornered. If they bother you again, just call the cops. Don't let them back in the house."

"I won't, I just wish you'd called earlier. Why are you calling now?"

"I've been moving, I wanted to give you my new number."

"They said you'd moved. Where are you?"

"I found a nice boardinghouse. If there's an emergency they'll get a message to me." I gave him Escott's phone number and told him to keep it to himself.

"What about the address?"

"I'll be getting a box at the post office, the landlord likes to steam things open."

"That's illegal."

"Yeah, but the rent's cheap and the food's good. How's Mom?"

He put her on the line and we exchanged reassurances and other bits of information. She thought I had a job at an ad agency and asked how it was going. I let her keep thinking it. Except for the Swafford case, my modest living expenses and the money I sent home to help them out had come from an inadvertent theft from a mobster and some engineered luck at a blackjack table. Neither of them would have won her approval.

I promised to call again in a day or two for further news and hung up, grinning ear to ear.

A few years ago I walked into a small bookstore in Manhattan. The window on the street was just large enough to display the painted legend: BRAXTON'S BOOKS, NEW & USED, and the inside sill held a few sun-faded samples of literature. In the last few weeks I'd seen a hundred hole-in-the-wall places like this; I liked them.

A bell over the door jingled as I entered. Dust motes hanging in the sunlight were stirred by the draft and I sneezed. By the time I straightened and wiped my nose he had appeared out of one of the alcoves formed by bookshelves.

"Good afternoon, sir, may I help you?"

He was shorter than me, with dark wrinkled skin like a dried apple.

There was a suggestion of black shoe polish in his hair, but the world was full of people who didn't want to look their age.

"Got anything on folklore or the occult?"

"Yes, sir, in this first section." He indicated the area and watched with a pleasant smile as I went to look it over.

It was a fairly complete selection. There were copies of Summer's works on witchcraft and vampires, even Baring-Gould's book on werewolves, but nothing I hadn't already seen and read before. I checked the fiction section, drew a blank, and finished off with the occult shelves. They were also very complete, but only with the usual junk. I said thank you to the general air and started for the door.

"Perhaps," he said, stopping me, "if you're looking for something special I could be of help. I have other books in the back."

It was my day off, I was in no hurry. "Well, sure, if you don't mind."

"What are you looking for?"

Speaking the title always made me feel vaguely foolish. "A copy of Varney, the Vampire by Prest."

He knew what I was talking about, not surprising considering the contents of his well-stocked shelves. His brown eyes got brighter with interest. "Or the Feast of Blood," he said, completing the title. "Yes, that is a rare one. I have a copy, but it's part of my own collection and not for sale."

"Oh," I said, for want of something better.

"May I ask why you are interested in it?"

The real reason I couldn't talk about, so I had a fake one practiced and ready. "I'm working on a book, a survey of folklore, fact and fiction."

"That is a very wide field."

"Not when you're tracking down certain books."

He looked sympathetic. "I'd like to help, but it could only be in a limited way."

Strings of some kind? He'd find out real soon I wasn't rich.

"You'd have to read it here in the shop, that is if you want to. I value it too much to loan it out."

"I can understand that," I said gratefully. "Are you sure it wouldn't be too much trouble?"

"Not at all, but it would have to be during working hours."

"That would be fine, thank you."

He offered his hand. "I'm James Braxton."

"Jack Fleming."

"Come in the back, I'll show you where you may read."

"You have it right here?"

"Oh, yes. Yes." He threaded past ceiling-high shelves, leading me deep into the narrow shop. He switched on the light over a desk and chair and swept some account books to one side. The light revealed shelves crammed with a faded patchwork of book spines of every shape and age. It looked like a duplicate of the folklore section out front, but more so. Some of the volumes were very old, with odd titles, others were recent and by skeptical writers. One shelf held only copies of Occult Review. He was more than casually interested in the subject himself, and I wondered if he sincerely believed in it. If so, I'd have to watch my lip.

He knew exactly where his copy was located and pulled it out, placing it on the desk. "I hope you enjoy it," he said.

"Thank you, you're very generous to do this."

"I'm just in favor of expanding knowledge in a neglected area," he smiled.

"You have quite a collection."

The bell on the door out front rang, interrupting his reply. He excused himself with a rueful smile, and for the next few hours was too busy to return.

I'd already read the first chapter in another book, so I skipped it and went through the second and third in short order. I was a fast reader, but did not plan to spend the rest of my life poring word by word through the book's more than two hundred chapters. In its original state, it had been published a chapter at a time for weekly consumption by the newly literate masses. A fast writer could keep himself employed for years with a popular series. In the previous century, the penny dreadfuls were just as popular as the current radio and movie serials were now.

I skimmed the pages, reading the brief descriptions given under the chapter titles, and touching on the dialogue whenever it popped up. The gist of it centered on the tribulations of the Bannerworth family as they nobly bore the attacks of Varney upon their daughter, Flora. A good family, but not too bright: if they'd simply moved away at the start they would have saved themselves a lot of trouble, but the plot dragged on regardless of such logic.

It was really better than I expected--at least at first, then the quality of the writing began to deteriorate along with the continuity. A cliff-hanger ending was never resolved and one of the Bannerworth brothers seemed to disappear completely from the story. When he did return, the author had forgotten his name. Whole sections written for no other purpose than to fill a word quota tried my patience and I skipped them altogether. I focused on the few scenes where the vampire appeared and had dialogue.

His blood requirements were only occasional, usually after he'd been killed and his body was carelessly left out in the moonlight, which revived him. The moonlight device had been lifted wholesale from Polidori's story and used shamelessly each time Varney was shot dead, or in one case, drowned. He had no trouble with running water, crosses, or garlic, not that anyone thought of using the latter two against him.

Eventually all the Bannerworths disappeared, to be replaced with a steady parade of beautiful young girls that he kept trying to marry, either in the hope their love would end his curse or because he was thirsty. Sometimes, the reason was a bit vague. He was usually kept from the nuptial feasts by an interfering old enemy, the man the bride truly loved, or the bride's suicide. He soon ran out of nubile prospects as well as European countries to ravage.

Tough, he was able to recover from mortal wounds with some lunar help, but he certainly lacked a talent for hypnotism. His victims always ended up screaming for help and interrupting his dinner. The one point I did find very interesting was that each time he was resurrected, he had to soon feed or die.

I shut the book with a slight headache and a sigh of relief just as Braxton was coming back.

"I was closing up for the day Surely you haven't finished it?"

"Not exactly." I explained my skimming method to him.

"Are you sure you got sufficient detail for your research? I thought you'd be here for several days, taking notes."

"I can hold it in my head long enough to jot the high points down later."

He registered mock disappointment. "And I'd been looking forward to some company. It is so rare for me to meet someone with a similar interest in the unusual."

"I couldn't help noticing your collection"

He was proud of it and this time able to talk. "Fortunately my business gives me an advantage over others. I often get advance notice of private collections going up for sale and can get first pick." He pulled out a volume, but didn't open it. "That's how I found this one. A friend of mine who arranges estate sales told me about it, and I made an early purchase ahead of the auction."

With a slight shock I deciphered the title; the script lettering was hard to read. "But I thought this was a fake, it has to be."

"As did I when I saw it, but here it is. It came from the library of a university professor. His relatives sealed up his house when he suddenly disappeared. The police thought he'd been kidnapped and perhaps murdered, but never found the body--the case is still open. His family waited seven years, had him declared dead, and settled his estate."

The story stunk like a barrel of very old fish. Braxton's friend must have taken him for plenty over that book. He had believed it, though, and expected me to as well. "What was his name?"

"I don't remember, this was years ago."

"Maybe he wrote it on the inside of the book."

"No, not this book."

"Mind if I flipped through it?"

He was uneasy. "I'd rather you didn't. The Necronomicon isn't just any book, you know. That does sound ridiculous in the broad light of day, I realize I must appear to be superstitious."

"Why did you buy it if it makes you uncomfortable?"

"I don't really know, perhaps it's the collector in me. I suppose I also wanted it kept somewhere safe, where it would not be used." He sucked in his lips and looked embarrassed.

He wanted to impress someone, anyone, and I was his latest effort.

Projecting an air of mystery and implied danger concerning his possessions was his method, and it put my hackles up. I'd met people like him before; he was more subtle than most and probably had a small, handpicked circle of acolytes. I wondered where they held their weekly seance.

"Yes, I guess it could be misused," I commented neutrally.

He was relieved that I hadn't laughed, and re-placed the book. "Some of these others might help you in your research. I wouldn't mind you looking them over."

"Thank you very much, but I'm afraid most of them are outside my immediate study range."

"Are you researching vampires exclusively?"

"For this book, yes. They're popular now."

"They always have been. Hardly a week goes by that I don't have a customer asking for a copy of Dracula. Business was especially good last month, when the movie began showing. It would seem to be the last word on the subject."

I knew better but said nothing. "Yes, I'm trying to locate Stoker's sources. I don't have the British Museum available so I've been hitting every bookstore and library in the city."

"Why are you interested in his sources?"

"To see if there were any true accounts of vampirism in them."

"Do you believe in vampires?"

I didn't like the way he focused on me. "In a way I've read about people like Elizabeth Bathory and others. There's always going to be a few oddballs running loose, but as for the Dracula kind of vampire, no, I don't believe in them." And I said it with perfect sincerity, but his intense, inquiring look made me uncomfortable.

"You don't believe in supernatural vampires?" he pursued.

"No."

"But what if they exist despite your disbelief?"

"They don't."

He smiled tightly.

"You believe in them?" I asked.

"I'm not sure." He gestured at all the books. "I've read them, all of them, and there is a lot of evidence. Most of it is quite absurd, of course, but once sifted through, some of it refuses to be dismissed. I like to keep an open mind."

"To each his own," I said meaninglessly, trying to think of a polite way to end the conversation. Someday I might want to come back, though that possibility was not looking very attractive at the moment.

His expression was still disturbing. "But tell me, Mr. Fleming, and with all truth, what would it mean if there are such things? What would it mean to you?"

"I'd have to think that one over."

"I already have. I've thought a lot about it. We have this bright world of daylight, predictable and comfortable to us. Normal. But what do we do when something happens that simply does not fit into that world and makes us conscious of another world altogether, existing and blending closely with our own? A world we can but glimpse and then dismiss as a fantasy, a world we cannot sanely accept, for that would doom our complacent security. Its citizens are beautiful monsters, to be feared or laughed at as at a dream. But if their reality were to be proved to you, how would you react? You can deny it or accept the truth. One keeps your illusion of your world safe and the other well, your hand might hesitate tonight before it turns out the light. How can you slumber in peace when you cannot see what the darkness conceals? Our eyes blink against it, our ears hear things that might be moving, our skin shivers and anticipates crawling things beneath the covers. Within that dark, which is as sunlight to them, they watch and bide their time until sleep takes you; they sense it as we sense the heat and cold. They approach, marking you, stealing your heart's essence to strengthen their own Undead bodies, and when the dawn comes they're gone and one more part of your soul is gone with them."

It was past time to leave. The man knew too much and yet too little. He was perceptive enough to know there were other reasons besides a bogus book to inspire my research. Maybe he hoped I would confide in him, show him the marks on my throat and ask for help. That was out. I was not under any restraining hypnotic suggestion from Maureen, but I did have a share of common sense. Even if I told him the truth about vampires, it would do no good. He was the wrong sort to unlearn all the nonsense he had sitting on his shelves, such truth would endanger his illusions just as he said.

He read my face correctly and knew he'd gone too far too soon.

Cultivating acolytes takes time. "I'm sorry, I do ramble on a bit."

"That's all right. It was very interesting, but I have to be going.

Thank you very much for letting me read the book. I really appreciate it."

"Not at all," he replied, shaking hands. "I hope you'll come again?"

"Sure," I lied.

Social conventions sometimes come in handy. We smiled, said the usual things, performed the expected rituals, and pretended all was right in the world. It was for me as soon as I stepped out into the brisk March dusk to walk home. Braxton's outlook on reality was enough to throw anyone off center. If nothing else, he personified my own fears of vampirism and made me realize how groundless they were. Compared to Maureen, Braxton was far more frightening.

The relationship Maureen and I shared was hardly consistent with the popular image of vampire and victim. Our love-making was astonishingly joyous and normal, and if at its climax she drew a little blood from me what did it matter as long as we both enjoyed it? Maybe she wasn't a typical vampire, maybe there were others just as dangerous as Stoker's creation. I did not know.

I never mentioned Braxton to Maureen; I didn't want her to know about my fears, especially now that they'd been dispelled. She needed my love and support, not my insecurities. After a very short time, the incident faded from my memory.

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