Night’s Children

My Dearest Emelia:

I trust this letter finds you in good health; and, by now, Basarab has found it in his heart—if he has one—to forgive you…

Santan grows daily. I am worried because he still cannot tolerate the sun. I thought by now he would have adjusted, even just a bit. He sleeps most of the day and wants to play in the night. An unfortunate incident happened the other day. The young man, Randy, who drives me around, thought to take a peek at Santan, and he pulled across the special cover I had made for the baby’s car seat. The sun seared Santan’s cheeks. I had tried to stress to Randy that Santan had a serious sensitivity to the sun. Well, he believes me now…

Now for the most urgent news I have to burden you with. I am with child again—his child. I guess, in some ways, I should be thankful, for it means Santan will have a brother or sister. However, I cannot help worrying. Will this child be the same as its brother, or will it be more like me? Either way, I could be in trouble. Do you have any advice for me? If Santan eventually partakes in his father’s ‘habits,’ how will I be able to protect this new child? How safe will I be?…

I’ll wait (eagerly) to hear from you.

Love, Virginia

Also by Mary M. Cushnie-Mansour

Poetry

Life’s Roller Coaster

Devastations of Mankind

Shattered

Memories

Short Stories

From the Heart

Biographies

A 20^th Century Portia

Novels

Night’s Vampire Trilogy:

Night’s Gift

Night’s Children

Night’s Return

NIGHT’S CHILDREN

Copyright © 2014 by Mary M. Cushnie-Mansour

Copyright © 2012 by Mary M. Cushnie-Mansour

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the author through the website: www.marymcushniemansour.ca

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales are entirely coincidental.

Ordering Information:

Books may be ordered directly through the author’s website: www.marymcushniemansour.ca or through booksellers. Contact:

Cavern of Dreams Publishing

43 Kerr-Shaver Terrace

Brantford, ON N3T 6H8

1-519-770-7515

Discounts are available for volume orders.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Cushnie-Mansour, Mary M., 1953-

[Novels. Selections]

Night’s vampire / Mary M. Cushnie-Mansour.

(Night’s vampire trilogy )

Contents: bk. 1. Night’s gift -- bk. 2. Night’s children -- bk.

3. Night’s return.

Issued in print, electronic and audio formats.

ISBN 978-0-9868169-1-8 (bk. 1 : pbk).--ISBN 978-0-9868169-2-5

(bk. 1 : bound).--ISBN 978-0-9868169-5-6 (bk. 2 : pbk.).--

ISBN 978-0-9868169-6-3 (bk. 2 : bound).--ISBN 978-0-9868169-9-4

(bk. 3 : pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-927899-00-7 (bk. 3 : bounds--

ISBN 978-0-9868169-3-2 (bk. 1 : epub).--ISBN 978-0-9868169-7-0

(bk. 2 : epub).--ISBN 978-1-927899-02-1 (bk. 3 : epub).--

ISBN 978-0-9868169-4-9 (bk. 1 : audiobook).--ISBN 978-0-9868169-8-7

(bk. 2 : audiobook).--ISBN 978-1-927899-03-8 (bk. 3 : audiobook)

I. Cushnie-Mansour, Mary M., 1953-. Night’s gift. II. Cushnie-Mansour, Mary M., 1953-. Night’s children. III. Cushnie-Mansour, Mary M., 1953-. Night’s return IV. Title.

The future belongs to those who believe in the reality of their dreams.

To live without a dream would be like living in a world without windows.

To my husband,

Ed Without his unconditional support, my dreams would not have come to fruition.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Bethany Jamieson and Ella Pankatz for all the hours they spent helping me with the editing of “Night’s Children.” The hours were long, and the pay was minimal, but I know you enjoyed the homemade lunches, pots of tea and coffee, and the odd goodie that graced the table at break time—well, what breaks this taskmaster allowed you! I appreciated your patience as we battled together against the legions of commas, semi-colons, word usage, and content. Your staying power when dealing with the ever-changing mind of the writer who you were working with is heartfelt. You both are amazing!

Cover design by Terry Davis at Ball Media, Brantford, ON Canada—Terry you did an amazing job creating this little vampire child!

Cover photography of child by Heather Cardle, Photographer—www.heathercardle.com Maesin will forever be our little vampire!

Special thanks to Charlie Mansour and Jesse Whalen for allowing me to use a picture of their son, Maesin Mansour, for the second print of Night’s Children. Maesin, some time in the future, you will point to this picture and say to your friends: “See, that’s me! My grandma did that to me when I was little!”

Thanks to Judi Klinck, Mariette Havens, Jerusa Hunter, George Hatton, and Brenda Ann Wright for taking the time to read Night’s Children and for giving me such wonderful testimonials.

Once again, I would like to thank the Talos family for allowing me the continued use of photos of their property, Wynarden, for my book cover. Wynarden was built in 1864 by the Yates family, and over the years it has often been referred to as Yates Castle. It is a prominent, historical landsite in Brantford, Ontario.

Virginia

Chapter One

It was hard to believe I had finally escaped. The graveyard was still. It was a good place to collect my thoughts. I stared at my son, still overwhelmed that he was with me, and then placed him in the basket provided to me by Aunt Emelia. It was time to start my journey. I had no idea what life had in store for me now, but I was hoping whatever it threw at me, there would be less turbulence than the past year of my life had immersed me in.

I needed to find a secluded place to live. I secured the ten thousand dollars Emelia had given me under Santan’s blanket. It would buy me time until I wrote to her. She had said in her letter that she would provide for me and the child—I was banking on that. A high-rise apartment was not logical, especially with a small child … not to mention the fact there would be too many people around, something I was not willing to take a chance on. I followed the sidewalk down West Street and then stopped at Henry Street. I decided that might be a good street to check out, so I turned and headed down it. I noticed a small apartment building in the distance and thought that maybe if I rented a ground floor apartment, it might not be too bad.

As I approached the Red-D-Mix plant, I noticed an Apartment for Rent sign at the end of a long, narrow driveway that ran alongside the railway track just beyond the factory. I gazed up the lane, saw a large grove of trees, and walked toward them. When I reached the house, I knocked on the front door. A young man opened the door, just as I was about to leave. From the look on his face, he must have thought I was one weird lady, dressed in a black cape, carrying a baby in a basket.

“Hi,” I whispered huskily. “The sign at the road says you have an apartment for rent; I’d like to see it.”

“Sure,” he replied, running a hand through his thick, auburn curls. He smiled sheepishly as his eyes gave me a once-and-twice-over. I hesitated, noting his unkempt appearance, but I was desperate for a place to live.

“Well?” I prompted. His gaze was making me feel uncomfortable. “Is it still for rent?”

“Yeah, yeah … just a sec, I’ll grab the key.” He disappeared for a moment. “It’s on the ground floor at the back,” he informed on his return. “Has two bedrooms, kitchen, living room, and a four-piece bath. There is a small fenced yard off the kitchen. I use the front yard. Fridge and stove come with the place, and there is laundry equipment in the basement, if you want to use it. You can come through my place, if you like, using the door between our apartments. It locks from both sides. Or, you can use the outside side door that leads to the basement. I’ll give you a key.” He paused. “Name’s Randy, in case you were wonderin’. And you are?”

“Virginia,” I responded, just giving him my first name. “The apartment sounds like a nice place; when is it available?”

“Right away. The previous tenant moved out last week. You can move in immediately if you need to.”

I noticed again how his eyes scanned me.

We walked around to the backyard. There was an abundance of vintage maple trees holding up a half-rotten wooden fence. The gate wobbled as Randy pushed it open. “Guess I’ll need to fix this,” he mentioned.

That’s highly unlikely.

“Watch your steps here; the ground is a bit rough,” he added.

Randy opened the back door and we stepped inside the kitchen.

What a mess.

“I haven’t had time to clean,” Randy was quick to say—

he must have noticed the disgusted look on my face.

I got the impression that Randy had had no intention of cleaning the apartment. “Don’t worry about cleaning,” I said. “I don’t mind a little hard work.” I placed Santan’s basket on the floor and took a quick look-through. The rooms were of an ample size. The ceilings were ten feet high, which dated the house back several years. Old, peeling wallpaper was on some of the walls, flaking paint on the rest. “Could I do some decorating?” I asked, running my hand along the wall.

“Sure, whatever you like,” Randy replied amiably.

I expected that would be his answer. Anything to save you work. “How much is the rent?” I asked.

“Six hundred a month … everything included.” He looked hopeful.

“I’ll take it.”

Randy smiled. I noticed he also breathed a sigh of relief. I was making his job easy. I wondered what his connection to the owner was; and, if he was paid to look after the place.

“When do you want to move in?” Randy enquired.

“Right now, if that’s okay.”

Randy tilted his head to one side. I could tell he was curious about me—about my outfit—about the baby in my basket. He cleared his throat, as though he wanted to say something more.

“That is okay if I take the place now, isn’t it?” I asked before he could be too inquisitive about my condition.

“Yes … yes … that will be fine; but … but…”

“But what?” I asked, probably a little too sharply. I could feel the heaviness of milk in my breasts. Santan would be waking for his meal soon.

“I need the first and last month’s rent,” Randy said, blushing as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

“No problem,” I answered. “Just give me a few minutes. I’ll come to your apartment with the money. Would it be possible to use your phone so I can arrange to get my own phone installed?”

“Sure.” Randy looked relieved as he turned and shuffled off. “I’ll leave the key on the counter for you,” he mentioned before closing the door.

I walked back to the kitchen and looked down at Santan. His eyes were twitching, and his arms and legs were wiggling under the blanket. “Want to see your new home?” I whispered as I picked him up.

Santan’s head bobbed around on my shoulder. His dark eyes shone brightly as they looked around. He whimpered. I sat down on the floor in a corner of the living room and began to nurse him. He fussed until I covered him with a blanket. I glanced at the large windows. I would definitely have to invest in some heavily lined curtains.

I peeked under the blanket. Santan was sucking contentedly. My milk was still a reddish colour. I hoped the blood would soon be gone, leaving nothing but pure mother’s milk. After Santan had finished his meal, I counted out twelve hundred dollars from the envelope. I laid my son in the basket and draped the blanket over the handle to protect him from the sun. I looked around the apartment again, picked up the key, and then headed to the front of the house and knocked on Randy’s door.

“Hi again,” he greeted me with a pleased look. “The phone is on the end table by the couch.” Randy pointed at the doorway, which revealed a cluttered living room. I was surprised he had remembered that I had wanted to use his phone. I handed him the money. He looked shocked.

I made my way in the direction he had pointed, stepping gingerly around the various items strewn on the living room floor. How can people live in such clutter? “You wouldn’t happen to have a phone book handy?” I asked.

“Sure … sure … let me see here,” Randy mumbled as he dug through a pile of newspapers. “Here it is,” he proclaimed, holding up a dirty, torn phone book.

I grimaced at the condition of it, and prayed bugs wouldn’t crawl out of the first page I looked at. “I will need a receipt for the rent money, Randy. You can provide one, can’t you?”

He nodded.

“Good. My full name is Virginia Casewell.” I had decided not to use my real last name. I had no idea, yet, how I would procure new identification, since all of mine was gone. I guessed I would cross that bridge when I got to it.

Randy nodded and ambled off to the kitchen. I flipped through the phonebook until I found the local phone company’s number, and then dialled it.

At first the operator was pleasant enough, but when I said I hadn’t had phone service in my name before, her tone changed.

“We will need some information, then. Full name?”

“Virginia Casewell.”

“Employer?”

I had to think quickly on that question. Who was I employed by? The Count Basarab Musat? To give birth to his child, and then be laid off—without notice!

“Employer please, miss,” a curt reminder came over the phone line.

“I … I … I’m self-employed,” I managed to spit out.

“Well, what is it that you are self-employed at, miss?” The voice sounded snippy now.

How the hell do I know what I am self-employed at? What difference does it make anyway, as long as I pay their damn bills? “I’m a freelance writer,” I finally informed her, not being able to think of anything else.

“Oh.” I pictured a sarcastic look on her face. “Address please.”

I gave her the rest of the details she needed, and then she put me on hold. The seconds ticked off on the rusty alarm clock that Randy had propped up on a collection of well-looked-at girly magazines. I wondered if he was a pervert. Probably not—most likely he was just a normal young man dreaming the impossible dream of having a Bunny Girl for a night or two. From the looks of the messy apartment, I was almost certain he did not entertain much, which suited me just fine—the less people around, the better for me and Santan.

The operator returned to the phone line and gave me my installation time. She also mentioned that I would need to put down a $200.00 security deposit. You are hoping I will say I don’t have the money, aren’t you, so you can cancel the order. “No problem, will your technician accept cash?”

I heard her clear her throat. Good, I was well under her skin. “Of course,” was her terse reply.

“He will give me a receipt, I hope?” I asked matter-of-factly.

“Of course.”

The operator went over the booking with me, and then hung up without even thanking me for the business. I thought of reporting her rudeness, however that would only draw unneeded attention to me—something I didn’t want. The more private I kept my life, the less chance there would be for him to find me.

Randy was standing in the doorway of the living room. He was wearing his sheepish smile. “Gave you a hard time, eh?”

“A hard time is what I would like to give her,” I answered, still irritated. “Do you know the number for a local cab company? I need to go out and pick up some groceries and a few items for me and the baby.”

“No need to call a cab; I’ll drive you around,” Randy offered. “Now the apartment is rented, I am free to do what I want. Besides, I need to pick up a two-four of beer, and some groceries.”

“That is extremely kind of you, but I need several things besides groceries. I don’t want to take up too much of your time.” I had noticed how he had mentioned the beer before the groceries—hopefully not an indication that he was going to be a party guy, which would mean I might have to be more vigilant than I had first thought.

“Time is what I have plenty of,” Randy countered with a bow. “Randy’s limo is at your service, miss, for the entire day, if that should be your desire.” He straightened up and took a closer look at me. “You have any clothes besides what you are wearing?”

I glanced at my outfit. “No.”

“How say I lend you a pair of jeans and a shirt?” He suggested, without questioning me about why I had no other clothes.

I breathed a sigh of relief. I wondered how clean the clothes would be, but then again, I knew I couldn’t go to stores in what I was wearing. “Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”

Randy headed to his bedroom. He returned a few minutes later with a pair of jeans and a red cotton shirt—a perfect colour. “You can change in my bathroom,” he suggested.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll just go to my apartment and change. I can meet you out front in 15 minutes, if that is convenient for you?” I took the clothes from Randy and picked up Santan’s basket.

“Do you want me to watch the little fella for you?” he asked.

“Ah … no … it’s okay; I’d rather have him with me.”

“Weird lady,” I heard Randy mutter as I headed out the door.

The jeans fit perfectly around my waist, but I had to roll up the pant legs. I was pleased the shirt was roomy, camouflaging the fact that I was not wearing a brassier.

“Wow!” Randy whistled as I walked up to the car. “They fit you better than they ever fit me!”

I hoped Randy didn’t have an ulterior motive on his mind where I was concerned. After all, he didn’t know me from a hole in the wall, and he was lending me clothes and taking me shopping.

“Let’s boogie!” Randy cut into my thoughts. He opened the car door. “It isn’t much, but it gets me around,” he mentioned as I was putting Santan in the backseat.

Randy and I spent the next couple of hours shopping for baby items and other necessities I needed for the apartment. I moved along quickly, trying to finish before Santan’s next feeding. After the grocery store, Randy made a quick stop at the Beer Store on Grey Street. I mentioned that I had no furniture, so he drove to a used furniture store on Murray Street. I noticed a few baby items displayed in the parking lot. I bought a crib and mattress, dresser, change table, and a buggy for Santan; plus a bedroom suite, a small kitchen table and chair set, and a living room couch and chair for me. The man said he would have everything delivered later in the afternoon.

Randy still hadn’t questioned my bizarre circumstances, and for that, I was relieved. Most people would have plied me for answers. How often does a stranger, dressed in a long black cape, and carrying a child in a basket, show up at the front door? And, on top of that, the stranger had enough money to pay cash for everything they purchased, even though her appearance implied poverty.

Randy helped me to unload my parcels when we arrived at the house. I thanked him and tried to give him twenty dollars for his gas and his time. He refused. I made a mental note to buy him a case of Blue the next time we were out, and to put gas in his car.

“You have a licence?” Randy asked as he was leaving my apartment.

“I drive,” I answered, “but I don’t have a current license.”

“Well, if you ever get it, you can borrow the Bug anytime I’m not using it.”

“Thanks.” I shut the door and turned to face my new life.

∼

In the late afternoon, my furniture was delivered by a burly man with a pungent odour. He insisted that he put everything into its exact location. All he expected from me was directions, and to hold the door open for him.

Earlier, while Santan was sleeping, I had scrubbed the kitchen, bedrooms, and bath. I intended to ask Randy if the carpets could be replaced, or better yet, removed altogether. I preferred wooden floors; the warmth of them was comforting.

“Well, miss,” the delivery guy looked around when he had finished bringing the furniture in, “lot of potential in this little apartment if the right person gets hold of it and fixes it up. Private too.” He hitched up his pants and stared at me. I didn’t like the expression in his eyes. “Been in Brantford long?” he asked.

“No,” I replied, offering him nothing further, hoping he would get the message that I was not in the mood for a lengthy conversation. I handed him a ten dollar bill. “Thank you very much for delivering my furniture here so quickly. May I give you something for your trouble?”

“Oh no, miss, we aren’t allowed to accept tips. Little fellow sounds hungry,” he added, as Santan’s whimpers began to get louder. “His pa around?” I noticed a greedy look in his eyes.

“Not here—at the moment,” I informed, flatly. “Once again, thank you; and, as you can hear, I must see to my son now.”

He still took his time leaving. Just before I shut the door, he turned and looked back. I noticed a startled expression on his face. He hesitated a moment, shook his head, and then got into his truck and left. I looked down at my shirt and saw the moist circle around my breasts—thank God the shirt was red!

∼

The first week passed quickly. I cleaned. I tended to Santan. I tried to sit with him in the backyard, but even in the shade, the sun bothered him. I was forced to keep him under cover all the time. I prayed time would change that. Randy was gracious enough to take me out a few more times so I could pick up some other necessities for my apartment.

∼

By the end of the second week, my milk was a pale pink. I credited the decrease in the blood to the fact that I was no longer drinking Max’s special drink. Santan hadn’t seemed to notice the difference in his meals, and I felt this was another victory for me over the Count Basarab Musat. It would also be one more step toward keeping Santan human and wholly mine.

Chapter Two

The reality of what the rest of my life would be like, waiting for the count’s return, devoured my mind day and night. I constantly read Aunt Emelia’s letter. I was still overwhelmed by the immense sacrifice she had made to aid me during my flight for freedom.

I decided it was time to write to her…

Dear Aunt Emelia:

I cannot believe two weeks have already passed. I can’t thank you enough for what you have done for me. I was fortunate to find a secluded apartment in the back of an old house. It is set way back in from the road and is surrounded by trees, which keeps most of the sun out. I have purchased some heavily lined curtains for the windows because Santan is still highly sensitive to the sun. I am hoping this condition will go away, so he might have some normalcy in his life.

I cannot open a bank account because I have no identification. I have also decided to change my last name. Is there any other way you can forward my funds, until I figure out what to do with this situation? I have been as frugal as possible; however, the first and last month’s rent, furniture for the apartment, and my food and other necessities have drained a good portion of the money you gave me. Even if I managed to establish a bank account, I would feel more at ease if I could keep most of my dollars close. If the count were to discover my whereabouts, I would be forced to leave here at a moment’s notice. I hate to ask, but--well, I guess I don’t have to tell you the predicament I am in.

Anyway, dear aunt, I hope this letter finds you well and that you have not yet been found out. My address is 53 Henry Street, Brantford, Ontario, N3R 5K2. I also have an unlisted phone number, if you should ever be able to call me--1-519-753-6666.

Until next time--love, Virginia.

∼

Santan was growing—thriving, in fact. He was only irritable when I tried to expose him to the sun. I decided that my best solution was to take him out for late evening walks. If I were going to succeed in introducing Santan to the sun, I realized it would have to be done slowly and with extreme caution.

Randy was an immense help. I don’t think I could have managed as well if he had not been around. I finally met his uncle, who owned the property. He loved what I was doing to the apartment, and told Randy to deduct all of my expenses off the rent, as long as I handed over the receipts.

∼

Santan was already a month old. “I think we should invite Randy over to celebrate—what do you think, Santan?” Santan smiled.

Randy accepted my invitation. I cooked a casserole, made a little cake, and bought a bottle of Baby Duck wine and a six-pack of beer. Surprisingly, Randy refused to drink anything more than a glass of milk.

“I’ve been drinking too much,” he told me. “I need to focus on getting my life in order. My uncle keeps telling me the early bird gets the worm.”

“He must be referring to job hunting,” I smiled.

“Yeah … I guess I won’t be able to stay here forever, living off him.” Randy smirked. “He doesn’t owe that much to my parents.”

“What do you mean by, owe that much to your parents?” I asked.

“Uncle George is my guardian. He promised my parents he would take care of me if anything ever happened to them. They were killed in a car accident two years ago. The trust fund they had set up for me was meant for my education, so it is locked in until I go to college or university.” Randy wiped away a tear. “I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye.”

“I am sorry,” I managed to say before Randy continued.

“As a result, Uncle George had to put his money where his mouth was and look after me. But, what swingin’ bachelor wants an eighteen year old kid hangin’ around them all the time? So, he came up with the idea to let me live here, entrusting me with the responsibility of looking after the property. He puts a monthly allowance in my bank account for me. He never bothered to think about the possibility that I may have wanted to continue my education,” Randy said with a touch of bitterness in his voice.

“Had you planned to continue?” I posed the question to see how serious he was, or might still be.

Randy feigned a hurt look. “I was going to be a journalist. I had been accepted into the three year Journalism program at Mohawk College, and was supposed to have started classes in September … Mom and Dad died at the end of August. There was no way I was emotionally stable enough to attend college that first semester, and I just never got back around to reapplying—which is something I can’t blame on my uncle, I guess.”

“But it isn’t too late,” I prompted.

“Maybe not.” Randy hesitated. “Say, I overheard you tell that phone operator you were a freelance writer. Perhaps you could help me get started on my career; I wouldn’t even have to go to college. I can bring over some of my stuff for you to read—just for an opinion, mind you.”

Freelance writer? Was I? If only he knew. Better he didn’t know what I was writing. Who would even be allowed to read such a story, if the count found out I was writing it? And if it ever were published, I would have to declare it to be a work of fiction—who would believe such a thing could happen!

“Well?” Randy broke into my musings.

“Sure, I’d love to read some of your stuff.” I considered it a smart idea to play the charade. It didn’t surprise me, either, that he might look for an easy way out of having to go to college. I didn’t hold out for the quality of his writing.

Randy’s face lit up. He looked very much like a schoolboy who had just asked a girl out for a first date and she had said yes. What a strange world I had landed in again—but, I hoped not as sinister as the one I had just left.

∼

Another week passed, but it had been an uneasy one for me. The blood had finally stopped flowing in the breast milk, however I felt overly fatigued. Santan was testy and I wondered if it was because he was not getting any blood. There were moments when I cursed having him with me, but those moments passed quickly.

I still had not heard from Aunt Emelia and my funds were dwindling. I worried what my tomorrows would bring. I ate; I was sick … I worked; I tired quickly … I slept; it was never enough. I remembered my mother’s words—life goes on, no matter what happens to us—I had no choice but to push forward.

For Santan’s sake, if for nothing else.

∼

In mid-October, I received a package by special courier. The return address on the package was Miss Adelaide Georgian, 10 West Boulevard, Kenora, Transylvania, so I knew that it was from Aunt Emelia. The letter inside was uninformative, where the family was concerned, but it did confirm that she was still my benefactress and that I would have no financial worries as long as I continued to care for the count’s son.

My Dear Virginia:

I am pleased you have found a suitable place to live, and I understand your difficulty in opening a bank account with no identification; therefore, I have taken the chance and sent you another allotment of cash. Hopefully, this problem will not last long; a bank account will make it much easier for Adelaide to wire five thousand dollars to your account at the first of every month.

How is the child? I assume, by now, the blood in your milk has disappeared. I hope that this has not caused complications for Santan or trouble for you.

I will only bore you briefly with news about me. The count was furious at your escape, especially with his son! He demanded to know who had aided you. No one spoke up; as well they would not, since it was I who aided you. Basarab turned his wrath on Max, presuming Max to be the most likely candidate to have helped you.

At that point, I interfered. I could not allow Max to be punished for something I had done; however, I was careful not to disclose my own part in your escape. I knew that I would have to confess eventually; however, that particular moment was not the right time to do so. I stopped the assault on Max, but Basarab was still filled with rage. He began to pressure me as to who had done it. After all, if I knew Max had not, then possibly, I knew who had. He took hold of my shoulders and stared into my eyes, searching for the truth. I have to admit, I feared I would not be able to block him from reading my mind.

It was Atilla who finally came to my rescue, saving me from further interrogation. He grabbed Basarab’s arm, staying him in his fury, and ordered his son to let it go; there were more urgent matters to attend to at the moment. Basarab was fuming, but Atilla prevailed. Within a few hours, we had closed up the house and were on our way.

Once we were in Transylvania, I confessed. I told Vacaresti, who in turn informed my nephew. Basarab still will not speak to me; I guess I deserve that, though. After all, I did take from him what he had most desired for a long time--his son. Time will heal, I hope, and time is what I have an eternity of.

Continue to write me at the address I gave you, to let me know how things are going with you and the child. If there is anything else you need, or if the funds are not enough, do not hesitate to speak up.

Love, Aunt Emelia

∼

I laid the letter on my lap and gazed over at my sleeping son. It was daylight, the hours when he slept the most. At night he was wide-eyed and roaring to go. This played havoc on my sleep; but try as I might to change his schedule, it was mine that had to change.

I was glad to learn Aunt Emelia had been saved from Basarab’s wrath. I would have hated myself had something horrible happened to her because of me. I knew the count would not have been quite so irate if Emelia had only helped me to escape; I didn’t mean much to him—in fact, I was pretty sure I meant nothing at all!

I chuckled at Emelia’s assumption that five thousand dollars might not be enough to sustain my monthly expenses. I was relieved I would not have to get a job to support myself and Santan, especially under my circumstances. Of course, I could always put him in a little coffin through the day and only let him out at night … just a joke, but one I was beginning to believe might come to fruition one day. I wondered if the coffins were still in the basement of The House, or if they had been shipped to Transylvania. I guessed that might depend on whether they would be returning to Brantford. Plus, if The House was put up for sale, wouldn’t dirt filled coffins in the basement be questioned?

Randy offered, several times, to watch Santan for me so that I could do my shopping unhampered. I didn’t have a valid driver’s licence, I reminded him. Sometimes, instead of him driving me around, I would just give him my grocery list and the money to pick up what I needed. I had no desire to go out any more than necessary. Who knew what friends the count might have left last minute instructions with, to see if they could locate the whereabouts of his son?

Randy approached me one day and asked me to go out to a bar with him that night. He said he wanted to celebrate something with a friend. I thought it was strange he felt that I was such a person, due to the short span of time we had known each other.

“Come on, Virginia,” he began, “Lets you and me split this place for a couple hours. I have something important to share with you.” He had smiled his sheepish smile, the one I had come to love.

“You know I can’t do that Randy,” I replied.

“Look, everyone hires a sitter for their kids once in a while. You have to let go a little, Virginia. You must know someone. Santan will survive without you for a couple of hours.” Randy reached out and grabbed my hand.

His action startled me. I pulled away sharply: “Don’t touch me,” I hissed. “And no, I don’t know anyone that I would trust enough to leave with my son,” I added.

Randy had stepped back, raising his hands in the air. “Wow! Sorry! I didn’t mean anything, Virginia.” His face was beet red.

I realized I had made a terrible mistake: “I’m so sorry, Randy. It has nothing to do with you, really. I appreciate your offer; it sounds wonderful, but maybe another time, okay?” I extended my hand to him. “Friends?” I begged.

Randy didn’t hesitate. He took my hand in his. I noticed how large and warm it was. He smiled. “Friends, for sure.”

As Randy was leaving, he turned and left me with a few words for thought: “I don’t know who has hurt you in the past, Virginia, but not everyone is bad. I don’t want anything more from you than friendship, please be assured of that. I don’t know where you came from, or where you may be going, but I do know one thing. You are the strangest woman I have ever come across, and you are also the most fascinatingly beautiful woman I have ever met.”

I stood there, speechless, my mouth hanging open. Those were strong words for such a young man.

“What?” Randy smirked.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Nothing.” I shut the door. Randy went out without me. He must have had fun because he was banging around his apartment in the wee hours of the morning, singing away at the top of his lungs! I was sure, whenever he woke up, he would be nursing a colossal hangover.

∼

As the days passed, I couldn’t believe how queasy my stomach was—there was no letup to it. In fact, after I ate my breakfast, all I felt like doing was throwing up. I was late, too, and that worried me. I feared the last night the count had had his way with me had left me with more than a discarded heart. I thought it was time to call a doctor, but who could I trust with my possible condition? What about Santan? As soon as I walked into a doctor’s office, would they not start asking questions about why I wasn’t bringing my son in for regular appointments? What if they asked about his birth records? What would I tell them?

I picked up my phone and dialled Randy’s number. It rang ten times before a sleepy voice answered. “Hello?”

“Hi Randy … sorry, if I woke you … I need a favour.”

“Sure … what do you need?”

“I have to go to the pharmacy and pick up a couple of things.”

“No problemo,” Randy said. “Give me an hour and I will be at your door with my little red limo.”

“Thanks.” I smiled through the phone line. “See you in an hour.”

God, I felt sick. I wondered if I should be going out at all. I spent the next half hour throwing up in the washroom. By the time I felt well enough to leave my sanctuary, Santan was waking up, and from the sound of his cry he was hungry. I needed a moment to me, though. I poured a glass of water and threw some ice in it, and then went outside for a breath of fresh air. I looked around, taking in the beauty of my little piece of the country in the middle of the city. I was lucky to have found such a place—quiet, secluded, and out of the way of the hustle and bustle of people. Even Randy was a salvation, for he seemed to be a recluse. In fact, I had yet to see anyone pay him a visit, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he had any friends.

The maple trees whispered to me as a light breeze rustled through their branches. They seemed friendly, not like the ones at The House. These were younger and straighter, standing tall all around the yard. Perhaps they too were soldiers, but instead of hindering my escape, they would protect me by keeping him away!

Santan’s whimpers turned into full-blown hunger howls. I didn’t want Randy to think I was one of those mothers who let their baby cry and cry. It was time to return to reality.

∼

“Hey,” Randy said as we were on our way to the pharmacy, “how say, after you get what you need, we split Brantford this afternoon and head out to Port Dover?” Randy smiled his sheepish grin.

“I can’t,” I answered.

“Come on, Virginia, you never go anywhere! You keep that kid cooped up all day in the house, not to mention yourself! I think we will go to Dover whether you like it or not.” Randy turned around and looked at Santan who was sitting in a hooded car seat. I had made a special cover for his seat, so the sun couldn’t scorch his skin. “How about it, little guy, want to go watch the girls on the beach?”

Randy gazed over to me: “See, he nodded his head.”

“I’m sorry Randy, taking Santan to the beach is out of the question.”

“Give me one good reason,” Randy insisted.

I decided I had no choice but to tell him. “In case you haven’t noticed, Santan has a serious sensitivity to the sun. That is why I keep him inside in the daytime, and if I have to take him outside, he is fully covered.” I didn’t want to provide further information, but Randy kept pushing.

“Have you taken him to a doctor about this condition?”

“No.”

“Why not? Do you know what causes it?”

“No,” I lied.

“Is it something hereditary?”

“No!” I lied again, wishing Randy would just drop the subject. “Possibly,” I added, as an afterthought.

“Do you have a doctor in Brantford? If not, I could put you in touch with mine.”

“No, I don’t have a doctor here.” How can I get him to stop questioning me about this issue? An idea struck me: “But, I have found an out-of-town doctor who specializes in skin conditions. I have an appointment to see her in a couple of weeks. Don’t bother yourself about this, really,” I stressed. “Thanks, anyway, for your concern,” I added.

I could tell by the wrinkles on Randy’s forehead that he was not sure whether to believe me, or not. Finally, he sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and let the subject drop.

“There’s the pharmacy,” I pointed out.

Randy stopped in front of the door. “You want me to go in and get your stuff?”

“No, it’s okay.” I got out of the car and reached in the back for Santan.

“Come on Virginia; he’ll be okay with me for five minutes!” Randy’s voice had a hint of sarcasm in it.

I hesitated a moment, then relented. Aunt Emelia had said to guard Santan well, not be his shadow. What could happen in five minutes?

I learned pretty quickly what could happen in five short minutes. On exiting the store, I saw the look of horror on Randy’s face, and I heard my son crying. His cry sounded weird, too—like a howl. No, not possible … a baby wolf?

“What is going on here?” I demanded.

“I … I … I …” Randy’s face was flushed.

“Spill it!” I shouted, panic skipping through my heart’s normal pattern. “You what?”

“I just lifted the shade a tiny bit; I didn’t realize how hot the sun was, I guess. I promise never to do that again. Santan is more sensitive than I imagined. Now I know why you don’t expose him to the sun; his skin sizzled!” Randy’s face was etched with disbelief, as he recounted what had happened.

I got in the car, slammed the door, and ordered Randy to take me home. I knew I shouldn’t have spoken to him so sharply; he had no idea who Santan was—that he was the son of a vampire! I made a decision to get my driver’s license and a car, so I would not have to depend on Randy to drive me around. Until then, I would take cabs.

When we arrived at the house, I took my package, unhooked Santan’s chair from the backseat, murmured a thank you, and headed for my apartment. I was still shaking. I unlocked the door, entered my private domain, and shut out the outside world.

I drew the blanket away from Santan and observed the burn marks on his cheeks. I noticed that he was already beginning to heal—clearly a genetic disposition! There would be no need for drugstore creams.

Even though Santan was healing fast, he was irritable and didn’t want to feed. I laid him in the playpen and wound up the music box that hung on the side. After a few minutes, he settled and fell asleep.

I retrieved my package, opened it, and read the instructions. I couldn’t do the test until morning. I walked to the window and stared out into the early evening, watching the sunset, as I used to do at The House. However, then, they would come for me. Now, when the sun settled in the west, I could walk unfettered down the street, or sit out in the yard, wherever I chose, for I was free—for now. My eyes felt heavy; it had been a long day.

I was startled awake by an insistent knocking on my door. “Just a minute,” I hollered. I walked quickly to the bathroom, slipped my package into the medicine cabinet, and then went to answer the door.

Randy was standing on the walkway. He was holding a bouquet of red roses in his arms. “I wonder if you will accept these as a peace offering, Virginia. I had no right to do what I did today; you have no idea how sorry I am. I’ll understand if you never want to see me again.” He handed me the roses.

I couldn’t help but to forgive him. I would just have to be more cautious in the future.

“How is the little guy?” Randy enquired.

“He’ll be okay. I put some ointment on his skin,” I lied. “He’s sleeping in the playpen.”

“May I see him?”

“I’d rather you didn’t right now. He was quite upset—wouldn’t even nurse. I don’t want to wake him.” There was also no way I wanted Randy to see how quickly Santan had healed. I paused. “If you would like to come in for a drink, I’ll just put these flowers in a vase.”

“Coffee would be good, if it’s no bother.” Randy stepped in and took a seat at the kitchen table.

I found an empty glass jar on the top shelf of the cupboard, filled it with water, and placed the roses in it. I got my coffeemaker out and made enough coffee for four cups. I glanced at Randy and smiled, as I reached for two mugs.

“Cream and sugar?” I asked, walking to the fridge.

“Both,” Randy replied. “I still haven’t told you my good news yet.” His face lit up with excitement.

I had forgotten that he had asked me to go out the previous night, to celebrate something. “Well?” I prompted.

“I got a job. Not much of one, mind you, but it is in the field I want—writing! Uncle George spoke to one of his friends at Brant News, and he said I could do some freelance work for them, covering evening sports events.” Randy took a breath. “Since that seems to be the only time you go out of the house, maybe you and Santan could go with me sometimes.”

I smiled. “That would be nice, maybe sometimes.” I was not ready to get into another why or why not session with Randy. “When do you start?”

“Monday night.”

I decided to treat Randy to supper, to celebrate his new job. We ordered a pizza and then watched a suspense movie. I guessed who the killer was; Randy said it was because I was a writer. I giggled and told him, as a writer, I would not have ended the story that way.

“You have an inside edge on me,” Randy said as he was leaving. He paused and leaned against the doorjamb.

“Not really, Randy; it is just common sense that Jake did it. I mean, look at all the clues.” I adamantly defended my reasoning.

“Don’t rub it in,” Randy snorted, looking embarrassed. He paused. “Would you mind letting me read some of your stuff?”

“Maybe … I don’t usually let anyone read my material before it goes to my editor.” I was getting proficient at pumping out the lies. I prayed that I could keep track of them all!

“Who is your editor?” Randy asked. “Do you already have a publisher?” He sounded excited.

“You wouldn’t know them,” I answered quickly. “They are in Europe.”

“Oh … well, whenever; I look forward to reading your work.”

“Maybe,” I repeated as I shut the door.

∼

My greatest fear was realized the next morning. I was pregnant! I had no idea how I was going to explain this, much less be able to handle another pregnancy so soon after the birth of Santan. Then again, who was around to explain anything to? Randy? I had never mentioned to him that I had a husband. I assumed that he would take it for granted that I did because I had a child. At the least, he would think I had had someone in my life. I would write to Aunt Emelia for advice. Without the special drink, I knew I wouldn’t produce the same formula for this child; but it would still be his child, and I wondered what affects that would have on its future.

I thought, momentarily, of ending its life; but it was a fleeting thought. Life would be lonely for Santan, and I knew all too well the loneliness of being an only child. Maybe this baby, growing in my womb, had been sent by God—a little brother or sister for my son so that he wouldn’t have to grow up alone.

However, I was also aware that it was not God who had planted this child’s seed!

Yes, I would write to Emelia; she would know what to do.

Chapter Three

It took me a few days to recover from the shock of being pregnant again. My mind was whirling over my precarious circumstances. Having to raise two children on my own would not be an easy task. I was exhausted. Nevertheless, I knew the letter to Emelia must be written; I could procrastinate no longer. I picked up my pen.

My Dearest Emelia:

I trust this letter finds you in good health, and that by now, Basarab has found it in his heart--if he has one--to forgive you. I hope you have not been humiliated in any way that you are afraid to tell me about. If I found out you suffered because of me, I couldn’t forgive myself.

Santan grows daily. I am worried because he still cannot tolerate the sun. I thought by now he would have adjusted, even just a bit. He sleeps most of the day and wants to play in the night. An unfortunate incident happened the other day. The young man, Randy, who drives me around, thought to take a peek at Santan, and he pulled across the special cover I had made for the baby’s car seat. The sun seared Santan’s cheeks. I had tried to stress to Randy that Santan had a serious sensitivity to the sun. Well, he believes me now; but this occurrence has driven me even deeper behind the walls of my secret world. I made sure, though, that he did not see how quickly Santan’s burns healed. Do you know of anything I can use to help him live a normal life in my world? I want him to experience life--to be able to play on a beach, go to a baseball game or a soccer game, play in the yard--just be a typical kid. Is there a chance for that? Or am I fooling myself?

Thank you so much for your generous support. After the episode mentioned above, I believe I will need to buy my own car. They have them with shaded windows, which will probably be the best kind for me to get. I will have to figure out how to obtain a driver’s licence, since I still have no identification. Any ideas?

Now for the most urgent news I have to burden you with. I am with child again--his child. I guess, in some ways, I should be thankful, for it means Santan will have a brother or a sister. However, I cannot help worrying. Will this child be the same as its brother, or will it be more like me? Either way, I could be in trouble. Do you have any advice for me? If Santan eventually partakes in his father’s ‘habits,’ how will I be able to protect this new child? How safe will I be?

.