Chapter One

He walked briskly through the warm fall night. It was a path he'd walked so many times; there was no need to glance left or right. Valhalla Memorial Park Cemetery had been mowed recently, he noticed. The smell of freshly cut grass assaulted his vampiric senses, causing him to wrinkle his nose uncomfortably. Fortunately, he wouldn't be here long, just long enough to pay his respects. Dressed appropriately enough in black, he made his way through the crowded cemetery with sure strides. Soon enough, he saw the modest tombstone and let out a sigh. Why did he torture himself year after year? What did he think he was accomplishing? It was a part of his life that he'd let go of long ago, or so he thought.

You did it for their own good, he reminded himself. Still, every November he made his way to the large cemetery in North Hollywood to visit the people who had given him life, a life that had been turned into a horror. He glanced down.

Andrew St. John, Beloved Husband and Father, 1900-1968.
Madeline St. John, Beloved Wife and Mother, 1905-1978.

Thank god they never knew, Mick thought. Part of him wondered which was worse; to know that your only son was a vampire or thinking that he just disappeared from the face of the earth. They'd searched for him after his marriage. When they hadn't heard from him after what was to have been his honeymoon, they searched. They'd hired a private investigator too. Mick chuckled at that thought. In the end, with no leads, Andrew and Maddie gave up. Nevertheless, Maddie never really gave up hope; she just knew her son was out there somewhere. His name was on her lips when she died, Mick was told. His contact at the morgue had quietly placed the call on that unusually cold night nearly thirty years ago. What else had he said?, Mick thought. Oh yeah, that she had died under suspicious circumstances. However, Mick never really looked into his mother's death. It was just too painful. How the not knowing must have ate at her. You're too dangerous, Mick reminded himself for what felt like the millionth time. There's no way they could have processed that information. They were better off not knowing.

He pulled two long stem roses from his jacket and placed them carefully on top of the simple stone. It's my birthday, he thought. Thanks, Mom and Dad, you gave birth to a monster. That's not true, he reminded himself. Andrew and Maddie's son wasn't a monster. Coraline's creation was, despite what a certain reporter told him constantly.

Beth. Somehow, he knew that she would enter his thoughts. It never failed. As often as he tried a train of thought that had nothing to do with the Buzz Wire reporter, he always came back to her. Would she have come here tonight? Probably. If he'd asked, she'd have come. But Mick hadn't spoken to her in nearly a week. Not since the fire at the warehouse.

Beth would have been interested in his parents. She'd want to know what his childhood had been like. Did he and his father play catch in the front yard? Did they listen to the radio every evening? Where did he go to school? How did the Crash of 1929 affect his family? What was the Depression like? He could answer all those questions, but Mick St. John did not like to dwell on the past. OK, he did. Just not on the loved ones he had been forced to give up. Yet here he was on his 85th birthday leaving roses at his parents' grave. You're a complicated man, St. John, he thought.

As he turned away from Andrew and Maddie, another vision struck him. Now the grave in question didn't belong to his parents, but to Beth. He stopped in his tracks, horrified. He reached to his left, finding a nearby oak tree for support. Beth. She's fine, he reminded himself. She's not dead. But she will be eventually, he thought. It was something that he didn't like to think about. He closed his eyes and saw it again.

Beth Turner, 1981-2065, Beloved Companion and Friend

Mick hoped she lived that long. Hanging around him wasn't really conducive to living a long life. But she wouldn't abandon him; he knew that. Not anymore than he could abandon her. Of course there was a way around the whole mortal coil thing, but Mick refused to consider it. Even if she begged him. Like she had done nearly a week ago. That had been the drug, of course. Still, Beth had tested his resolve like never before. She'd never know exactly how close she had come. The very thought repulsed him, but then again so did her eventual death. Enough of this, he told himself sternly. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it.

Resolving to call her when he got home, Mick left the cemetery as quickly as he had entered it. As he walked, Mick had the nagging feeling that he was being watched. He glanced around him but saw no one. Shrugging, Mick climbed into his Mercedes and headed for home.

Mick should have trusted his instincts, for he was not alone in Valhalla that night. Soon demons he thought long gone would come back to haunt him.

To be continued...