Author's note: Chapter Four has been edited. Turns out there's a good reason to remember that you've got two different copies of the same chapter before posting.

Chapter Five

Education

Waltham, Massachusetts, 1948

I sat in the wide branch of a giant oak tree only a few yards outside city limits. The mushroom cloud of leaves on the ancient oak kept me from plain sight – though if memory served, human eyesight at nighttime wasn't sharp.

Ten years ago, I wouldn't have been able to sit in this tree so calmly, waiting. Ten years ago I had two priorities; sating my thirst and exacting my revenge. Now, I had more refined tastes. There were hundreds of delicious scents filling the air; an olfactory gourmet menu at my disposal. My last meal hadn't worked out so well; it had been too long since I drank. I was hungry for a particular taste, however, and I would wait until I found the right one.

I had developed a certain favorite over the past decade. Like a dull man who always orders the same pasta-and-meatballs at an Italian diner, I sought one specific meal.

Blood came in many scents and flavors; fruity, floral, meaty. These flavors came served up in many different decorative dishes; the burly man, the dainty housewife, the scabby-kneed child. What I sought was a certain spice – one I had identified from countless kills.

When I first became a vampire, I devoured every human being in my path; well-fed or impoverished, pretty or disfigured. Every human had one future; they were all going to die. They didn't deserve any pleasantries along the way; there was no goodness in them and they could preach all they wanted about a graceful God, but they were all going to hell. I might make

it quick and painless for them if I was hungry, but it made my meal that much better if I heard them scream.

Over time, however, I became more cultured. I was sick of chicken; I wanted lamb. It turned out that the flavor of the tormentor – like the man who mocked me as a child – tasted spicy, of success and confidence. I sought out the scent of a tormentor, because I liked the taste. Revenge isn't sweet; it is garnished with a hint of turmeric and red pepper.

As I took inventory of the inhabitants of the suburban town, I sketched. My school girl satchel was my only possession; my sketchpad and pencils were all I needed. Occasionally, I would take some money from the wallet of a meal and use it to pay for a warm bath and clean clothes – I didn't pause to look at my reflection very often, because trekking through America was a muddy business.

Maybe it was a morbid pastime (though I feel confident in saying I lived a morbid lifestyle), but I loved to sketch their faces. For the past few years – as long as I'd been able to handle it – I would take delight in depicting the face of a dead man. It was an exercise in control to finish a drawing of a tortured man – beginning the pain of the transformation before finishing him off – because once I'd tasted the blood it was hard to stop drinking. I kept a collection of my favorite faces in my school girl bag; a reminder of the improvement of my skills, as well as fond memories of my favorite kills.

Tonight I did not draw a face; I drew a room. I had a perfect photographic memory; I put it to good use in drawing my favorite scenes and selling them for a small profit to little art stores in forgettable towns. Every now and then, the sadistic side of my personality would slip the picture of a dead face into the stack of drawings I sold. I never bothered to hang around in the

shadows and wait for the scream; I was satisfied in knowing that no human could truly appreciate my style of art with a smile.

If not as an orphan, as a vampire I had become patient. I knew that mine was a waiting game, hunting the aroma I craved most. I had been sitting in the tree for hours, drawing by the comforting light of the moon, unaware of the dangerous game I played.

I had never met another vampire since the night I was changed. I did not know what they looked like, if their characteristics were in any way like mine. I did not think twice about my solitary lifestyle; it was what it was. I assumed that all vampires were alike in that way.

My prey that night took the form of a teenage boy; not a huge meal, granted, no more than fourteen years old, but he almost stank of school bully. I tracked him all the way from the highway out of town, where he passed in his father's car, napping after a long day trip into the big city. I wondered, as I ran in the shadows following the road, if he had perhaps gone to be entertained by a baseball game or maybe sat in his daddy's plush office, bored out of presence of mind.

Ignorant as I was, I did not recognize the sweet perfume of fellow creatures of the night lilting through the air. I was focused entirely on my pray – on the sweet pulse just under his skin. He was younger than I was; I would not torture him tonight. But maybe his father had been a tormentor in his youth; maybe it was just his bad upbringing, his parents' exposure of him to privilege. Wouldn't it be a sweet surprise for them, when they came to wake up their precious boy and he didn't move? Didn't even breathe; oh, I could almost smell my own anticipation it was so thick.

Had another vampire stepped in and stolen my prey from me – for at this point, he was mine – I would have tracked him down and killed him with every ounce of viciousness I possessed. My rage, though dimmed, was not equaled. He would pay.

I stood in wait in the shadows of the house, away from the streetlamps, listening for the telltale sounds of long, steady breathing. A light, peaceful sound – the man-child was asleep. Ten minutes later a heavier noise, a grunt of a snore – the father was asleep. I waited a half hour more for the mother to drop off; her instincts might have worried her about her son's safety. Finally, it was safe for me to enter the house.

I took no liberties; I climbed through the window, breaking the lock in the process, though that would matter little to this family in the morning. He looked almost innocent in the moonlight, eyes flitting around underneath his eyelids – dreaming - wrapped in soft blankets. I did the job quickly; snap the neck, relish the blood, savor the last moments of life, and then make my escape.

I was running – high from the excitement of the kill – halfway back to the highway when I heard footsteps behind me. They moved quickly, faster than human feet, and lightly, like a cats. I stopped and turned around slowly, finally able to smell this foreign creature.

"Who do you think you are?" His voice and face were nondescript, but in his features I could recognize many of mine; he was a vampire.

"I don't know," I couldn't remember the last time I had been nervous; not since my change.

"We were feeding here," a female voice said, stepping into the moonlight next to the man. Her hair reminded me of spilled red paint, wilder and frizzier even than my own, creating its own path away from her face.

"I'm sorry," I was unfamiliar with any vampire laws, but I was pretty sure they considered me an intruder.

"You bet you are," the male voice snarled. "Trying to steal food from nice people like us."

"It was just boy," I said, willing my stuttering voice to calm, "I meant no harm."

"Aww, James," the woman said, "she's probably young. Probably doesn't know how things are for us."

I jumped on that. "I've never met another one – of us, I mean."

The man "James" considered this. "So now you know. Don't get in the way of someone else's feast."

I nodded vigorously, and watched as they turned to leave.

"By the way," the woman turned back around. "Be careful. Hide the evidence and don't let anybody see you – they're pretty vigilant about that type of stuff."

"Thanks." I didn't know who "they" were, but I got the gist of it. As far as anyone else knew, vampires didn't exist.

I wondered briefly that the town wouldn't notice multiple deaths in one night, but didn't ponder too long. I had never run faster from a place as I did that night.

But now, I knew what to look for – what they smelled like – so I could keep out of trouble. I was fairly certain that if it hadn't been for the red-headed woman, I would be dead.

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