He slept. The world moved around him, and he slept. They laid him to rest, and he slept. He dreamed he could hear them; the priest's words, empty now: "Lord, receive this, your humble servant. We pray that you may take his eternal soul into your care, Father. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust." He laughed to himself, silently, as he heard the drops of holy water thundering on the coffin lid. Then silence. After a moment, the drops started again, accompanied by tiny, whimpering sobs. They weren't the holy water now, he realized. They were tears. Her tears. His Kathy was crying. He heard her whisper to him: "Don't leave me, Liam." He wanted to whisper back, wanted to tell her that all would be well, they would be together again, but he couldn't remember how to speak. No matter, he thought. They would have their time, he was sure.
*****

He awoke to find himself clawing wildly at an earthen prison, pulling himself up an inch at a time. He had to get out, had to be free. His veins were on fire. It was an eternity before his hands finally felt the cool night air. And then he sprawled on the ground, his back pressed to the cool, damp earth, eyes staring at the sky. The stars were there again, as always...but they were silent now.

He felt her standing over him. She offered her hand and when he took it, she smiled. He felt as though he would burst into tears if only he could remember how to cry. She spoke, and the world fell away:

"Welcome to my world. It hurts, I know, but not for long." She ran a hand through his hair, still caked with grave mud. "Birth is always painful."

He struggled to see past the pain, gasping instinctively for breath though, somehow, he knew he didn't need to. "I could feel them above me...as I slept in the earth." He squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to focus on the world around him "Their heartbeats...their blood...coursing through their veins."

"Yes."

"Was it a dream?" He felt himself slipping. The pain...the need...it was all he could do not to scream.

She laughed. "A dream for you...soon, their nightmare."

He heard rustling behind them, and turned to see an elderly man, the groundskeeper, holding a lantern by his face. "You there, what have you done?" the man gasped, "Grave robbers!" He could smell the blood in him. The pain grew worse and the world grew hazier, save for the tiny figure of the man. Soon, it was all he could see. Somewhere behind him, in the deep, he heard her whisper: "You know what to do." She was right. He knew.

He felt himself...his face...changing. His teeth grew sharper and protruded farther from his gums. His eyes grew keener and the world came into view again. He felt something within him stir...something primal...something evil. And he liked it. He started toward the man as he heard him stutter a prayer he obviously hadn't said in years: "Our Father, who art in Heaven...Hallowed be thy name...thy Kingdom come...thy will be done...give us this day our daily bread." He closed on him, and the man dropped his lantern and was silent. He felt the hot blood fill his mouth and was at peace.

He felt the life leave the old man swiftly, and was forced to drop him once he'd drained all that the dying heart would allow. His head swam. The pain was gone now. He looked down at the pitiful, crumpled, fragile form of the man he'd just killed...Just killed, he thought...and yet, there was no remorse...no guilt. There was just the warm, wonderful feeling of the man's blood now coursing through his own veins. And he was perfectly happy. He felt his features relaxing, becoming what they once were. He turned to her...she was smiling.

"It all makes perfect sense now, doesn't it?" She took his hand, stroking it gently, lovingly.

"Perfect sense." He laughed a little. It was all so clear now.

"You can do anything...Have anyone in the village." She hooked her arm around his, "Who will it be?"

"Any one?" he raised an eyebrow as if disappointed. "I thought I'd take the village."
*****

For weeks he picked them off one by one. The men at the taverns first...the old and feeble who spent their nights at cards...then his friends, old Mickey, the barkeep at MacSorley's, Kevin, who always told the funniest and most vulgar jokes...the pretty young girl whom he'd danced with one night...and her husband, who came so valiantly to her aid, running and locking himself in the toilet as the first drop of her blood touched his lips...he took him anyway...and scores of others. Darla, his maker, was always there at first, always standing just behind him, watching him, until he'd learned enough to venture out on his own, when he insisted she stay behind. This was his night.

He picked something fine from the wardrobe Darla had provided him: A gentlemen's suit of royal blue with white lace cuffs, and a fine oak walking stick. He even tied his hair back in the gentlemanly way, something he never would have done when he was alive. But, after all, this was a special night. She looked at him approvingly and smiled. His spirits were high as he stepped out into the crystal clear twilight, completely focused on his objective: He had to start with Peter. It simply couldn't be any other way.