does come back, she’ll be plain. Nobody will notice her. The way it was for you. But that’s all right, isn’t it, Devnee Fountain? You thought it quite a reasonable exchange, didn’t you, Devnee Fountain?”
“Don’t call me by both my names,” she said to him.
“Why? Does it make everything too real?” He laughed drowsily. He rocked back and forth contentedly.
Devnee tried not to think about that.
Actually, he did look healthier. His skin, usually the color of mushrooms, had a pinkish tinge. As if for the first time blood circulated in his body.
“What about my shadow?” said Devnee.
The vampire blinked. Frowned. The eyebrows landed and sat heavily over his eyes, as if keeping them from falling out as he rocked. “Your shadow?”
“It keeps on separating from me.”
The vampire’s smile was slow and pleased; his lips spread like drapery over a dark window. Teeth hung over the narrow lips like foam on a sea wave. “It does, doesn’t it?” he said dreamily. “Shadows,” said the vampire, separating the words in a cruel, bored way, “shadows … prefer not … to be present … when the …” He smiled again. “… when the event … occurs.”
“Event?” said Devnee. She was very cold. Her skin felt slick, as if she were growing mold. Or as if the vampire’s mold was migrating and attaching itself to her flesh. She wrapped the quilt more tightly around herself, pulling its hem up around her neck, until she was hooded in a comforter. It did not comfort her.
Especially when the vampire touched her cheek. She flinched and jumped backward.
“Shadows love the dark. I am the dark. Your shadow needed, as you say in this century, to make contact.”
She heard a noise outside the tower. The wind increased and came through the closed windows as it had before, and the chill was greater and the mold colder.
“Morning,” said the vampire.
He sifted back through the slits of the shutters, into the vanishing night.
“What are you made of?” said Devnee.
“Shadows,” he said. “Victims of many centuries. Collected in one cape. Under one set of teeth, as it were. I am thick with the shadows of the dead.”
“Aryssa?” cried Devnee. “I thought— she isn’t dead, is she? I thought you—I thought I—”
“She’s not beautiful anymore,” said the vampire. “She might as well be dead. Isn’t that what you told me?”
He was all gone except his fingernails, wrapped around the final slat.
But his voice continued on. A separate funnel of sound and horror.
“Sweet dreams, Devnee,” his voice said.
And his laughter curled into the dawn, his dark path retreated and, after a long time, Devnee Fountain turned around and went to find a mirror.
Chapter 7
S HE PAUSED WITHOUT LOOKING in front of her own mirror in the tower. Anything in the tower was suspect, could be corrupted. She kept her eyes lowered. She needed a real mirror, one that would not lie.
How strange, thought Devnee. My lashes feel longer. I can feel them against my cheeks.
She went down the tower stairs to the second floor. There was no need to turn on the light. The dark path lit a way for her. It caressed her ankles and spread a velvet carpet to escort her down.
But the bathroom she shared with Luke was also uncertain. It knew her. She needed a pure, untouched mirror.
Down the final flight of stairs she went. Into the wide hallway with its wallpaper half stripped off. Back toward the kitchen, past the debris of remodeling, the tiles torn off, the lights dangling by wires. She could see as clearly as if it were noon. Through the pantry she went, to the powder room door.
The heavy dark wood of the bathroom door was not flat, like her tower door or the bedroom doors. It had panels of wood, making a raised T. Or a cross. She smiled at the cross. The vampire had not entered this bathroom. This mirror was of the world.
Devnee took a deep breath. She turned the handle. There was no need to step in. The mirror faced the
“Don’t call me by both my names,” she said to him.
“Why? Does it make everything too real?” He laughed drowsily. He rocked back and forth contentedly.
Devnee tried not to think about that.
Actually, he did look healthier. His skin, usually the color of mushrooms, had a pinkish tinge. As if for the first time blood circulated in his body.
“What about my shadow?” said Devnee.
The vampire blinked. Frowned. The eyebrows landed and sat heavily over his eyes, as if keeping them from falling out as he rocked. “Your shadow?”
“It keeps on separating from me.”
The vampire’s smile was slow and pleased; his lips spread like drapery over a dark window. Teeth hung over the narrow lips like foam on a sea wave. “It does, doesn’t it?” he said dreamily. “Shadows,” said the vampire, separating the words in a cruel, bored way, “shadows … prefer not … to be present … when the …” He smiled again. “… when the event … occurs.”
“Event?” said Devnee. She was very cold. Her skin felt slick, as if she were growing mold. Or as if the vampire’s mold was migrating and attaching itself to her flesh. She wrapped the quilt more tightly around herself, pulling its hem up around her neck, until she was hooded in a comforter. It did not comfort her.
Especially when the vampire touched her cheek. She flinched and jumped backward.
“Shadows love the dark. I am the dark. Your shadow needed, as you say in this century, to make contact.”
She heard a noise outside the tower. The wind increased and came through the closed windows as it had before, and the chill was greater and the mold colder.
“Morning,” said the vampire.
He sifted back through the slits of the shutters, into the vanishing night.
“What are you made of?” said Devnee.
“Shadows,” he said. “Victims of many centuries. Collected in one cape. Under one set of teeth, as it were. I am thick with the shadows of the dead.”
“Aryssa?” cried Devnee. “I thought— she isn’t dead, is she? I thought you—I thought I—”
“She’s not beautiful anymore,” said the vampire. “She might as well be dead. Isn’t that what you told me?”
He was all gone except his fingernails, wrapped around the final slat.
But his voice continued on. A separate funnel of sound and horror.
“Sweet dreams, Devnee,” his voice said.
And his laughter curled into the dawn, his dark path retreated and, after a long time, Devnee Fountain turned around and went to find a mirror.
Chapter 7
S HE PAUSED WITHOUT LOOKING in front of her own mirror in the tower. Anything in the tower was suspect, could be corrupted. She kept her eyes lowered. She needed a real mirror, one that would not lie.
How strange, thought Devnee. My lashes feel longer. I can feel them against my cheeks.
She went down the tower stairs to the second floor. There was no need to turn on the light. The dark path lit a way for her. It caressed her ankles and spread a velvet carpet to escort her down.
But the bathroom she shared with Luke was also uncertain. It knew her. She needed a pure, untouched mirror.
Down the final flight of stairs she went. Into the wide hallway with its wallpaper half stripped off. Back toward the kitchen, past the debris of remodeling, the tiles torn off, the lights dangling by wires. She could see as clearly as if it were noon. Through the pantry she went, to the powder room door.
The heavy dark wood of the bathroom door was not flat, like her tower door or the bedroom doors. It had panels of wood, making a raised T. Or a cross. She smiled at the cross. The vampire had not entered this bathroom. This mirror was of the world.
Devnee took a deep breath. She turned the handle. There was no need to step in. The mirror faced the
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