Chapter 2

Feeding in Bangor would be relatively easy. He was familiar with the haunts of drunkards and criminals though Rowena would be safely tucked away at Bangor International. For whatever reason, perhaps it being the dumping grounds for witness protection of many kinds, Bangor International remained one of the safest places for keeping the plane for days, or rather, nights on end. Despite the FAA warnings still plastered all over each office wall with its make, description, tail number, and even his meaningless name for the past few decades, Bangor seemed to have the same respect for him that he did for it. Perhaps this was the reason he returned so frequently. That and, of course, the endless supply of disturbing occupants who deserved their grisly end. While he had been guilty of a few undeserved murders, even he admitted that, particularly that of children and women, he had spared more than his share of children and women from abductors and worse over the years also earning an odd and not quite connected legendary status as somewhat of a hero. That thought was more pleasing and appetizing than anything he did on a regular basis and fueled his desire to seek out the less-reputable of humankind as victims. He forgot that on many an occasion, his desire to feed and twisted sense of justice frequently made the men he slew into greater monsters than himself out of necessity, not in truth.

Again, Bangor was different and this was a different age. While the cloak he once used, adopting it after falling in love with the look during a stage adaptation of 'Dracula' was no longer part of his attire and he had discarded the more formal cravat and coat tails for less formal evening wear, he still seemed far better dressed than most here at the airport. Flight was once an occasion of severity or formality and required a certain attire. He missed those days. The office was quiet, even for a smaller airfield, and only a young woman sat at the desk. For whatever reason, she seemed out of place and something internally told him to turn and get back in the plane and fly to the next appropriate landing area. He shook it away. This was Bangor, a city accustomed to a high-turnover in the service industry and this occupation was no exception. He cleared his throat and the young woman immediately met his gaze. Her attentiveness was also off-putting and yet, somehow, he could hear and smell fear about her. This was highly unusual. Unless just about to feed, the only thing he felt from those around him was a calm and peacefulness most only dreamt of.

"Good evening," he offered kindly. Perhaps this was her first venture as a night attendant and she was uneasy in her situation, that was all. With a few well-placed words, a good smile, and well-groomed posture he could remedy that.

"It would seem so, at least as far as the weather," she replied, a quivering behind her voice that set even him off. She pushed the register forward and seemed to be trembling all the more. "I'm sure you're familiar with the routine."

"Of course," he said, wondering why on earth she seemed to lack any of the nuances of any office attendant. "The sky was practically crystal clear coming in from . . . "

"Your point of origin goes there," she interjected quickly, pointing to the ledger and derailing that part of his usual small talk. He frowned. This wasn't just unease, this was verging on being rude, something else which he could not abide. She watched him sign the ledger and fill out its contents almost completely with fabrications. "Bar Harbor," she remarked. "Not far from Grindstone Neck."

He perked up at this. Now she could be talked to. "Yes, Winter Harbor, home of the greater cottages of Northern Maine," he replied.

"You were born nearby," she said in nearly a whisper. He froze and stared at her blankly. She glanced down at the register and shook her head. "Bram Stark? Even for you that's unimaginative . . . Mr. Larkin." Now he felt his own breath and heartbeat quicken. Was he dreaming? No one knew his origin let alone his real last name.

"How do you know my . . ." before he could complete the question, he looked back up and found himself dumbfounded. His senses were more clearly attuned than even the most cunning hound and yet in the place of the young woman stood a young man, a few years older than the woman, and seeming much more bubbly and at home behind a desk with a friendlier smile.

"Know your what?" the young man asked pleasantly. The ageless pilot waved a hand dismissively and paid the landing fee as the young man made even more dull small talk than usual with context the pilot barely understood, though he was all too aware of it. "I'm telling you, this season is gonna be epic. You probably get cracks about your name all the time after it came out, right?"

"Of course," he remarked, hiding his disgust and disregard for the subject matter. "Thank you, sir. Good evening."

"No problem," the youth remarked with an enthusiasm that, even after what he had hoped to instill in the woman before him seemed irksome. "Oh and sir," the young man added. The older halted and turned for a beat. The young man smriked and leaned forward. "Winter is coming."

The pilot feigned a smile, nodded, and promptly left. Jeremiah breathed a sigh of relief and cleaned his glasses as Ceridwen stood cautiously. "Do you think he suspects anything?" she asked, calming her senses.

"With you? Of course; we all do," Jeremy said. "With me? Who knows. I hope I gave him the most annoying persona I could manage."

"This will work, I think," she said, still processing what had happened. "We just have to keep him guessing."

"Well, it's a good thing you've got what you do going for you," Jeremy said with an affectionate pat on her shoulder. "And, you know, you've got me along."

"You won't be enough to keep him guessing, to make it possible to get the information we need and to treat the illness according to protocol," she said. "We'll need another source of distraction as it were."

"Oh yeah?" Jeremy asked as he watched the plane sitting silently and perfectly still in the night air. "And who would that be? No one else has been assigned to . . ."

"We need a third person, an independent," she remarked. Jeremy watched her slip a thin-volumed book from her satchel and hand it proudly to him. "The material will do nicely as a starter, I think."

"You mean introductions, right? This guy in question is a vampire and he did try to eat this author once upon a time," Jeremy added as the two waited patiently for movement from the plane once more.

When the pilot, Bram Stark as he was now calling himself, exited and began what the two could only assume was the first part of what would be a few days' hunt, the two hurried out of the office and alerted the proper officials of their progress. Ceridwen approached the plane, trembling more visibly than she had done in the presence of the vampire. Jeremy still hadn't been sure from his research or Ceridwen's droning on about what it was that made certain people immune to a vampire's psychic power. It had something to do with mental acuity in some cases and in others an impaired sense of fear, though Ceridwen had also mentioned the presence of lipocrhome, a yellowish substance which, when present in the eye, gave it a green hue. With less than 2% of human population (which included traditional vampires) having green eyes, it made sense that this trait alone might make a person immune to one and be the reason that areas of greater concentration of green eyes such as Ireland, least likely to be plagued by them. Still there was more at work in Ceridwen's case that made her immune to his effects, though still painfully aware of his prowess and terrified of being made into another victim. Jeremy ended the conversation with headquarters as he watched Ceridwen bravely, gingerly, and with extreme trepidation, touch the tip of the plane's wing.

"Rowena," she said softly to no person in particular, but to the plane itself which didn't seem as odd to Jeremy as it might to anyone else. "He calls you Rowena."

"Ceri," Jeremy said loudly from a good distance. "Five feet at all times, remember? You might be immune to him, but he'll be able to smell you like a pot roast."

"That isn't as much a concern of mine, if you recall," Ceridwen said. Her mind buzzed as she reached into her satchel and withdrew two items, one of them the book she had shown to Jeremy before. "Even if he could detect who and what I am, the smell of this will deter him." She opened the door of the plane and nearly retched at the sight within, quickly leaving the two objects on the seat nearest her before shutting the door and rushing away. She knelt and gagged repeatedly. Before Jeremy could ask what was wrong, he noticed a small amount of blood on her hand. He fumbled through her satchel himself for a handi-wipe and cleaned away the red stain , discarding the wipe as she caught her breath. "There was no exaggeration," she said, nearly panting. "It's nearly coated inside with blood."

"I thought pilots rely on their instruments more than sight to fly," Jeremy said in confusion, having learned to put aside any disgust with such details in his line of work. "How does he get around?"

"Instinct, I should imagine," Ceridwen said looking back at the plane now with disgust. She stood and motioned for them to leave quickly. "And a sense of both direction and feel for the plane's instruments that comes with years and years of experience."

(*)

The night had been futile. The first night of a hunt was usually quite slim and it took a good two days to hone in on a target or two now that he didn't have the benefit of being able to slay the attendants of airfields as he used to. This wasn't just unusual for Bangor, it was unforgivable. He groaned at the very first, not even detectable to humankind, signs of daybreak. The sight of Rowena was a welcome one and a quick glance back at the office saw it completely empty. The sight of the young woman and then the sudden appearance of the young man without his being able to smell or hear either's change was either the most unsettling thing he had encountered in his long life (which included a secret and delightful aid in upending the horrible communist dictatorship in Romania) or a testament to the notion that a frenzy was not far away and his senses were fading as he needed to feed quickly. He grasped the handle on Rowena's door and another chill passed through him. Had the old servant been right, then someone had most recently been dancing on his grave in the past few years. In reality, something else was at work and sending his mind into strange thoughts and fears he had never before experienced. Someone else had handled Rowena, though he couldn't discern an age, a gender, or even a species to be sure it was human. A ghost, he thought, shaking that ridiculous notion away. Another vampire, perhaps? Again, he shook the notion away and simply opened the door, telling himself that he was simply not quite right being so hungry.

As if answering his inner monologue about hunger instantly, the sight of a donor unit of blood left obviously by some compassionate creature on the seat in front of him met him. Without warning or explanation, he fed immediately. The taste of it at the end of feeding always repulsed him, but this time the urge to expel any of it dissipated as quickly as the single pint in a voracious creature. It was the sight of the small book beneath it that caught his attention more than anything that night. He reached down and cautiously took hold of the book, looking it over with as much curiosity and excitement as any fanatic might gaze at a rare volume by their favorite author. He stared at it for a beat and then felt the burn of the first, though not visible, rays of the sun, made more deadly by the fact that he had only just eaten and not quite as much as he needed. He climbed inside the plane itself and drew the curtains, turning on the small light within that acted for most as a map-reading assistant but for him was a source of much entertainment the same way a flashlight acted for any child intent on continuing to read far past bedtime. Rather than settling back against the earth and fulfilling the superstitions that his sire had instilled in him, he instead sat awake in the pilot's seat and opened the book, reading the title aloud.

"The Truth Within: How to Write with Pathos and Without Sensationalism by Richard Dees."