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  Corky considered. “Do you believe in vampires?”

  Marian glanced back over her shoulder again. “Well, I don’t know. Could be they’re out there. Awful lot of people say they are. Is that what the cross is for?”

  Corky nodded, blushing. “Well, my uncle believes in them. So.”

  “Well, I think, if it makes him feel better that you wear it, and it makes you feel better, then that’s the important thing,” Marian whispered, smiling. “You want a box for that sandwich, hon? In case you get hungry later?”

  ***

  Later at the motel, Corky called Seth.

  “Hi babe,” came his voice on the other end. “Glad to hear from you. I just got home a few minutes ago.”

  “I knew you were going to be late. How was work?”

  Laughter. “Well it was fine until the drunk guy tried to jump over the bar.” More laughter followed. Seth was always laughing about everything; Corky found it amazing.

  “What? Coming after you?”

  “Not me, guy was after the other bartender. But I was closer, so I ended up kind of in the middle of it. Don’t worry,” he added, “I’m fine.”

  “Jesus. What was his problem?”

  “Dunno,” Seth said, then considered. “Well, most of his problem was that he was drunk, of course. Came in that way, actually. I guess that’s why he was mad – Eric refused to serve him. But anyway. How was your day?”

  Corky snarled. “Oh, it sucked. My cousin is such a bitch. And my uncle… he’s really crazy, Seth. Loony tunes. He was trying to give me this mirror…” she trailed off. “Well… he tried to give me a mirror that has magic powers, OK? So you can see how things are going with him. And then Pam, that…that rotten witch… she accused me of trying to steal the fucking thing from him.” She snorted as her eye passed over the leather-bound volume on the table. “And then there’s this damn book of his which is just… just…”

  “Man. What? Wait, you lost me. Back up a little, babe.”

  “This book! Uncle Moony wrote all this crap about my father, about how my father was a vampire, and not just that, but about how he was raising me to be a vampire.”

  “Kinky.”

  “No, really, Seth. This is just sick, and it keeps getting worse. Moony keeps saying that he tried to kill my father. Actually, earlier he said he really did kill him.”

  “Well, maybe he did. Try to, I mean.”

  “Maybe so, I don’t know. Listen to this crap.” She read to him from the book:

  ‘…how can I be sure of my motives, when I cannot be sure of his? Can one of the vampired feel love, or only lust; or is it only lust that I feel and the love which is truly his? Has it ever been thus? How can a man ever know the difference, when his eyes betray his soul at every turn, when his lips always desire what he must never have…’

  She blew air out of her nose and slammed the book shut. “It goes on and on like that, Seth, pages and pages of it, vampire, vampire, blood, death, murder… and then suddenly some really poetic stuff … and then more blood and murder and… and those damn feathers…” she gasped, half sobbing.

  “Feathers?” Seth interrupted her. “Wait. Babe, calm down. What are you talking about? Do you really think your father was a vampire?”

  “I don’t know!” This came out louder than she had intended, and she whispered the next words to make up for it. “Maybe. Maybe he was.” How could she know for sure? Her hand went again to the cross at her breast. “Mom never really talked about him. Just that he took off, you know.”

  He took off. Never any reasons why he might have done that, were there? No. Never anything else, even after she was older and could have been told more, nobody had told her anything. And she hadn’t asked, had she? “I never asked where he went, I don’t know whether he’s alive or dead, I don’t know anything about him at all.” Well, that might not be true. Her mind went to the birds again. Might be something you know about him, after all, isn’t that right, Cork?

  “Well, maybe it’s true.” Seth laughed again. “Think about it, presumably your father is alive out there somewhere. What if he really is a vampire?” He was joking around with her, but if could have seen her face he wouldn’t have. “What if your uncle actually knows the truth and it’s driven him mad, and—”

  “God, stop, Seth. Please.”

  “I’m just saying… wouldn’t that be sort of cool?”

  “Not if he was coming to get me, it wouldn’t, hell no.” She shook her head, wondering how cool Seth would think it was if he’d been there to hear about the dead birds, and deciding not to mention any of that yet. “I’m just freaking out a little, is all.”

  “I’m sorry, Cork. I didn’t mean to upset you. You’ll feel better when you get back home, I promise. We’ll hang up some garlic.”

  She tried to laugh, but it sounded a little hysterical.

  Chapter 12

  …I am going in circles.

  Ever in circles, and yet: when I am there so he is too.

  She couldn’t sleep.

  Corky rolled over and glanced at the clock. Shit. It was just after three in the morning, and though she was sure she must have slept at least a little bit, it didn’t feel as though she had. God, she was tired. Tired, but awake. Her mind kept going back over the things her uncle had told her over the past few days, and especially returning to the birds.

  “They don’t go to heaven,” she whispered now, in the almost-dark. The birds bothered her more than any of the rest of it, because… well, because that part could so easily be true. It was hard to wrap her mind around the vampire thing, but easy to imagine that someone who thought he was a vampire could take it upon himself to catch a bird and latch onto its throat. Even a young boy. Maybe especially a young boy.

  She sat up and rubbed her face. If her father had killed a bird and her uncle found him at it, maybe her uncle would have thought his brother was evil. She couldn’t have blamed him for that. Maybe he’d become obsessed with the idea. Maybe it broke his mind, she thought, glancing over at the book, thinking of Moony creating this whole scenario in his head, to explain what he’d seen. But surely, when he got older, he’d have realized the truth, that he couldn’t be a vampire, that he…

  This line of thought never ended well, and was half of the reason why Corky hadn’t gotten much sleep. Because if it was the case that Moony was only fantasizing about the vampire part because he couldn’t face the truth about his brother, then it meant the truth about his brother – her father – was that the boy had been sick in the head. And there you had it; one of the two, either Edgar or Moony, must have been sick in the head. Which one was it?

  “Maybe both,” Corky said, throwing the covers back and resting her feet on the soft, soft carpeting. She glanced at the book again, lying on the table. The motel had heavy drapes, but they didn’t pull shut all the way; one tiny sliver of light made its way in, slicing across the book like a knife. She stared at it for a minute or two, then finally got up, turned on the light and reached for the book. There hadn’t been anything about the birds in the first half, that was another thing. If the birds had been the thing that made Moony crazy, wouldn’t he have written about them? Or had the bird story only crept into his head after years of craziness had weakened his mental state?

  She turned to the page where she had left off, and resumed reading.

  …her beauty is like that sun, blinding to look at. Or maybe she is the moon, cold and distant! If only she could escape his brutal embrace, maybe I could describe her as something nearer, something tangible. I must find a way to kill him, I must find a way to retrieve that which was supposed to be mine.

  Corky folded her legs underneath her and read for some time, turning pages, looking for something that would comfort her somehow, something that would make it better, less frightening. But the writing only got more frantic and demanding. It went on for several pages about this woman, wondrous and beautiful and cold; and then, Corky spotted a line that made her frown:

&
nbsp; …Cecilia favored me with a smile today and my heart was born again.

  Cecilia? Not her mother, surely. Yet, on the next page, a description that fit her mother to a tee. And, on the page after that, an even bigger surprise:

  …her lips have found mine at last, today when I pressed her near the pantry she took hold of my sleeve and pulled me toward her… Cecilia in my arms was softer and firmer and warmer than I ever thought possible, and her lips tasted sweet enough to die for, and I will if I must…

  Oh. Oh, Jesus. Corky closed her eyes. Her mother had been sleeping with Uncle Moony, at least since… she flipped a few pages back for reference. Her sainted mother had been sleeping with Moony while Edgar was still at home. “That’s a great comfort to me, mom, that’s just peachy.” Maybe this was why Edgar had left, maybe this was the knife Moony had stabbed him with. She rolled her eyes, and read on.

  It went on for pages and pages, and suddenly she was viewing her entire life through a new filter. When she and her mother had visited Uncle Moony, had they been…? They had, obviously. And when Moony cried at the funeral, when Moony helped pick out the dress her mother wore to her grave, when Moony stood for her and spoke a eulogy, he had done it not as her brother-in-law, no.

  He had done all those things as her lover. As her grieving lover.

  Corky covered her mouth with her hands, and felt prickles come up on her back as she read the next lines.

  …he was out of town for a day, some nefarious purpose I am sure, but it gave us time…we tried to be quiet so as not to wake the baby, but I lost my head and cried out…

  She didn’t want to read this, but she couldn’t help herself. Her eyes ravenously devoured every word, her fingers turned the pages, and she kept whispering, “Oh, God. Oh, God.” Reading about the sex was bad enough, but then there was also the craziness, the simple insanity, underlying everything.

  …her eyelashes are made of wires, I can feel them crackling with electricity when she blinks…I love to run my lips over her face and feel my skin tighten and grow firm from the heat she lights in me…

  And then:

  … He has not found out about us, of that I am sure…I have warned her about him, about his plan, about the blood he must consume… she fears him as much as I ever did! Why did she never tell me, why did she never tell me?

  Oh. And then:

  …she has given me her cross, for my protection from Edgar… she had it blessed by the priest… and the inscription makes me cry with joy and hope, and with fear, for I cannot be wakeful always…

  Corky felt for the cross under her shirt and pulled it out, looking. And there it was, on the back, where Moony had said it would be: If he comes suddenly, do not let him find you sleeping. ~ Mark 13:36.

  It was her mother’s cross. Her mother’s. And her mother had been just as nuts as he was. God, could this get any worse? Corky thought it could, but she was powerless to stop reading. In the back of her mind she was wondering how many insane relatives you could get by with, before you found your own mind taking a wrong turn.

  This flew through her head like a moth, just out of reach, smelling of dust. She stayed up reading for a while longer before sleep finally overcame her and she drifted off, thinking to herself that one more visit to Moony was going to have to be it. She couldn’t take much more of this.

  ***

  In one dream, her father was calling from outside the window, asking her to let him in, and she was about to open the door when Moony appeared next to her and told her not to. You can’t let a vampire in, Cici, never open the door. Corky had looked at him with surprise, telling him she was Corky, not Cici, but Moony had only shaken his head at her and pulled her back from the window, holding a knife to her throat. You’re mine, he whispered in her ear, and he can never have you.

  In another dream, Uncle Moony was kissing her, his body full against hers as he pressed her against the door leading to his pantry. She could not get away, and did not even really try to. When she kissed him back he called her Cici and she felt his tears wet on hers. Down in the pantry, there were animals. She could hear claws scrabbling at the door behind her.

  Corky’s dreams were horrible. She remembered none of them.

  Chapter 13

  …today the knife was not sharp enough to penetrate his coat and he turned on me with a cry. Such surprise there and yet there is no real surprise in his eyes. He knows in his heart I am sworn to be the death of him, and he pushed me away and knocked me flat…

  Corky woke up exhausted, feeling dirty. She headed to the shower, and stood there letting the water pound on her for a long, long time, in a half-asleep stupor. She’d only had a few hours’ sleep, and it hadn’t been good. Because of the dreams. Corky drew a towel around her and snorted. She couldn’t remember any of the dreams, and she suspected that was a good thing.

  After getting dressed, she decided to get some breakfast. And then one last visit to Moony. In her mind, she emphasized that “last” part. She couldn’t do this any more. After one more visit, she’d have done all she could for the man. Then she could go home and get her life back to normal.

  “If Pam’ll let me visit again,” she snorted as she pulled in to the diner parking lot. It was possible that she wouldn’t. Corky thought it was possible that when she arrived at the hospice, men in white coats would come and ask her politely to leave. But, oh well. She could only try. It was a shame that Pam was making things this way.

  She slid into the booth and ordered coffee and some toast, thinking it over. Wondering how she’d have reacted if the shoe had been on the other foot. Would she have been any more reasonable? It was hard to know. Surely Pam was grieving over her father, some sort of grief process that kicks in when something bad is about to happen and you know it’s coming, surely that explained some of her attitude. She probably wasn’t getting an awful lot of sleep, herself. And then, of course, she wasn’t a very nice person to start off with, was she? Maybe having a crazy father didn’t help matters any, either.

  But here Corky had to take a step back. Yes, Pam’s father was obviously pretty nuts. His secret writings confirmed that. But they implicated her own father as perhaps even more dangerous-crazy than Moony was.

  “If having crazy relatives is a problem, I’m way ahead of the game,” she muttered into her coffee, looking out of the window. The day was grey, cloudy. Like her mood. Her thoughts turned back to the cross. Maybe she should give it back. But she didn’t want to. And she shouldn’t have to. It was her mother’s cross. Right?

  Unless Moony’s story wasn’t true. And how much of it could really be true, anyway? But it had a ring of truth to it. At least that part did, the part about the affair really had that good old ring of truth. But she couldn’t prove anything to Pam, not without giving over the book, and that wasn’t a good line of thought. That felt like betrayal. Uncle Moony had a secret, and Corky felt she had to keep it.

  It didn’t matter. She wasn’t telling Pam anything. Because sharing this secret – these secrets – with Pam would only make Pam hate her even more.

  The waitress was at her table. “You need anything else?”

  Corky shook her head, looking down at the cross again.

  ***

  When Corky stepped through the large glass doors of the hospice, it was her intention to make it a short visit. But she could tell right away that it wouldn’t be as short as she wanted. Uncle Moony’s room was easily visible from the lobby, one of the first in the long hallway, and she could see the door was closed. They were changing his linens or doing some procedure.

  Sighing, she turned toward the seating area, looking around for either Pam or Bruce. She didn’t see them. Maybe in the room with Moony, she decided, or maybe not here yet. It was still early.

  “Well, isn’t it a day?”

  Corky turned. An old woman had seated herself on the couch. She wore a hospital gown: the uniform of the walking dead. She had a plate of toast.

  “You…” Corky trailed off, glanci
ng at the toast.

  There were rules about food in the lobby. The woman followed her eyes and smiled, inching closer to Corky. “I snuck it out. I know the rules. Shh.” She held her finger to her lips. There was butter on them, both the fingers and the lips. “What harm can a few crumbs do? These rules, too strict.”

  Corky nodded. She had been reprimanded for having a soda out here. At the time, she had felt insulted. Now, looking at this old woman’s buttery fingers playing over the fabric of the overstuffed sofa, she had a somewhat new view of things. A hospice is not a home.

  “You have someone in here, then?”

  Corky nodded again. “Uncle.” She pointed vaguely over her shoulder and used the motion as a distraction, inching away from the woman. “My Uncle Moony, he’s—” She shook her head and looked at the floor, uncomfortable. Dying was what she was about to say, of course. But that didn’t seem polite under the circumstances. Everyone here was dying, including this woman with her toast. The old woman nodded at her.

  “Well, dear, that’s what this place is for, you know. You shouldn’t be so worried. Are they doing his meds or something?” She craned her neck. “Which room is your uncle in?”

  Corky pointed. “It’s that second one. On the left. With that cart outside? That’s him.”

  “Oh.” Another bite of toast. “Well, it’s nice that he has family to visit. Are you his daughter?” On this last word, a wet crumb flew from her mouth and landed on Corky’s arm. Corky stared at it, repulsed. The old woman didn’t notice.

  “Er, no. Niece. He’s my uncle.” Hadn’t she said that already? She shook her arm slightly, trying to get rid of the crumb, but it stuck fast.

  “Oh, that’s right, that’s right,” the woman said, nodding. “My head, I swear. My daughter is coming to visit me. I’m out here waiting for her.” She moved her eyes, flicking them to the left. “She doesn’t like the rooms, see. So I wait out here. It’s nicer for her, to be here instead. She says the room smells like medicine.” She snorted, taking another bite of toast. “I guess I’m just used to it. The smell. Does your uncle’s room smell like medicine?”