Infinite Days by Rebecca Maizel

I’d made into a vampire. He was eighteen when I found him, a Chinese warrior I’d discovered in the eighteenth century. I saw him across a crowded room and decided to seduce him. When I chose someone for my coven I based my choice on stealth, endurance, and capacity for giving death. Song was the most lethal martial artist in China. I chose him so I would never have to worry about protecting myself ever again.
    My eyes refocused on Tony’s high cheekbones and smooth skin. Behind him, I could see the rain starting to fall in a steady rhythm. Even from there I could smell the wet earth, not because of any vampire senses but because it had been so long since my sense of smell included anything other than blood and body heat.
    “Besides,” Tony said, still talking about the portrait, “you have a different look. And I like different. I don’t run with the crowd here.”
    “I doubt I will,” I said. “I’m reformed,” I finished with a smile. Tony smiled. “Cool,” he said, and crossed his arms over his chest.
    “I should go.” I started back toward the door, then turned to face Tony in the last minute. “And, yes, on the painting. It’ll be an exchange. You’ll teach me how to drive and I’ll be your model.”
    Tony smiled, and in that moment I noticed that his teeth were very white. This was a clear indication of good health and food intake. His blood probably tasted sweet and earthy.
    “Deal,” he said.
    I walked down the twisting and turning of the winding staircase.
    “Crap. Crap. Crap,” Tony said, and ran past me down the stairs.
    “Where are you going?” I asked.
    “Just noticed the rain!” he said. “Left my window open!”
    Tony hopped two steps at a time, so his bag of schoolbooks swung dangerously in the air. His sandals slapped against the stairs all the way until he reached the ground floor. Then I heard a smack on the tile and the opening of a door.
    When I reached the second floor, there was a window, much like those in the art tower. It was small and rectangular, but it had a clear view of the meadow and Student Union. I placed my bag down on a step and rested my palm on the cool stonewall. I stuck my face close to the window and watched the rain drops hit the cement of the pathways below. Then it occurred to me—I hadn’t stood in the rain and let it drop down my skin since 1418. The last time I felt the rain drops was the night I left my mother’s earring in our apple orchard. The night I met Rhode and fell in love at first sight.
    The night I died.

    HAMPSTEAD, ENGLAND—APPLE ORCHARD
1418
    The rain fell on the roof of my father’s house. We lived in a small, two-story manor behind the grounds of a monastery. The monks were far off from the orchards, separated from our home by two great meadows of apple trees. My father was an orphan, entrusted to the care of the monks upon his childhood. There they taught him about growing apples.
    It was the middle of the night, and the rain fell against the roof in an easy rhythm. I sat in a rocking chair, looking out at my family orchard. The house was silent despite the pattern of the rain and my father’s snores echoing downstairs. The embers of the nightly fire still lingered, and my feet were warm. It was the beginning of autumn, and it was warmer than anyone had anticipated. Although it was early September, my family rested easier. We had already sent the first batch of our prized apples to the royal Medici family in Italy.
    I was dressed in a white nightgown. In those days the nightdresses were flowing and sheer. If someone wanted to, they could see all of my fifteen-year-old self. My hair was still long and brown, but it hung in a loose braid over my left breast and stopped somewhere near my belly button.
    Through the wet window, rows and rows of orchards stretched into darkness, and somewhere to the right, in the distance, was a tiny orange glow of candlelight from the rectangular windows of the monastery. I rocked back and forth in