moaned under his touch, arching her body toward him, gasping and pleading until finally he’d satisfied her. Then, as the craving welled up in him once again, she’d drifted into sleep, her panting breaths slowing to a steady gentle rhythm that should have lulled him into slumber, too.
But sleep would not come to him — not yet at least. So he lay in the darkness, waiting for the clock on his bedside table to strike the hour of midnight. It was a beautiful clock — an ancient crystal regulator so perfectly maintained that its brass glowed like gold and its movement needed resetting only twice a year, in spring and fall. Its ticking was so quiet as to be all but inaudible, and when its hammer fell on its chime, the sound crept through the night with the stealth of a thief.
Only if you were listening for it could you hear it at all.
Then at last it happened: the clock struck once, twice, then ten times more, and Anthony Fleming rose from the bed, bent close enough to his wife to feel her breath on his lips, then moved through the familiar darkness of the bedroom into the privacy of his bathroom. Closing the door carefully enough that the click of the latch was barely louder than the ticking of his clock, Tony turned the light on and gazed at himself in the full-length mirror that was mounted on the inside of the bathroom door.
His body still looked strong — his shoulders broad, his torso narrowing to his hips without the slightest trace of bulge or flab. His chest was covered with a thick mat of curling black hair, just beginning to be shot through with the same gray that was starting to show on his head, but except for those first strands of gray, he looked far younger than his years. Under the bright light of his bathroom, though, he could see far more clearly that time was taking its toll.
The tan he’d gotten on Mustique didn’t quite cover up the liver spots on his hands and arms. His skin was beginning to lose its elasticity: the faintest beginnings of wattles were starting to show on his neck, and the veins in his legs were starting to look varicose. Soon his hair would begin to thin, his muscles would lose their tone, and his eyes would sink deep into their sockets. He would start to look like his neighbors, his youth ebbing away, leaving behind nothing but a living carcass rotting from within. Would his eyes go first, leaving him blind like Helena Kensington? Or would his muscles atrophy to the point where he could no longer walk, like Lavinia Delamond?
As all the images of youth destroyed by devouring age flickered through his mind, the cravings that had stolen his sleep that night grew stronger and stronger, calling out to him.
Tempting him.
Beseeching him.
He stared into the mirror at the image of his aging body.
And knew the cravings inside him must be satisfied before it was too late, and he could satisfy them no more.
Flicking the light switch, he plunged the room — and himself — into darkness.
There were people in Laurie’s room.
But that wasn’t right. It was her room, and nobody was supposed to come in unless she told them it was all right.
And the light was on.
Except there was something about the light that was different. It wasn’t the bright light the chandelier cast, or the even brighter beam of her new halogen lamp that stood on the nightstand.
Or even the glow from the streetlights outside.
No, this light was different, filling her room with a strange misty glow like nothing she’d ever seen before. It was as if it were foggy, but the sun was out.
And from out of the mist the voices came.
The same voices from last night?
She couldn’t be sure.
They seemed to be much closer than they were last night, but she couldn’t quite make out the words. Then, right next to her bed, a figure appeared.
A figure she recognized.
Helena Kensington!
The old woman was bending toward her, reaching out with her gnarled fingers, and a moment later she could feel their touch playing over her face. Closing her eyes, Laurie tried to pull away, but couldn’t.
It was as if she was bound to the bed, neither her arms nor her legs obeying her mind. But neither could she feel anything tying her down.
She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out and her mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton.
She tried to twist away from Helena’s touch, but there was no escape from the twisted fingers.
Now more fingers were touching her, and suddenly Laurie could see more faces gazing at her through the glowing mist. Dr. Humphries was there, and Tildie Parnova, and George Burton, and some other people she recognized, but whose names she couldn’t remember. They were all talking, but Laurie couldn’t tell if they were talking to her, or to each other.
She felt someone pulling the blanket and sheet back, and now she was lying on her bed, covered only with her nightgown.
Suddenly she felt cold, even though the room had been warm a minute ago, and her skin went all clammy.
She felt something on her leg now, underneath her nightgown.
A hand?
She couldn’t quite tell.
Now she felt a pain in her body, as if someone was inside her, and trying to cut their way out with a knife.
She wanted to cry out against the pain, but the terrible cottony stuff in her mouth still choked her words, and suddenly she couldn’t breath, either.
What was happening?
The voices were louder, but still she couldn’t understand what they were saying. More hands were touching her, exploring her body, reaching under her nightgown, pinching her flesh. And every instant, the pain in her body grew worse, until she didn’t think she could stand it anymore.
Then, as the pain finally exploded inside her, she felt a terrible gushing sensation between her legs.
Blood!
It was pouring out of her, soaking her nightgown, spreading across the bed. The babble of voices grew, and now she could see fingers being dipped into the blood — her blood — then raised to drooling lips, licked off.
Her blood! They were drinking her blood!
She tried to twist away, but the bonds that held her to the bed were too strong.
She was dying, bleeding to death, and even though she was surrounded by people — people she knew — no one would help her. The pain wracking her body grew along with the panic that was quickly invading her mind.
Then, out of the morass of babbling voices, a single voice emerged, a voice she recognized speaking words that she could understand: “Her eyes. Let me have her eyes. I need her eyes!”
It was Helena Kensington, and suddenly she was reaching toward Laurie’s face again, her fingernails cracked and yellowed, coming closer and closer to Laurie’s eyes.
As the old woman’s fingers sank into her face, pain and terror finally overwhelmed her, and a howling scream burst from her throat.
Laurie woke up.
The dream — all of it — vanished in a flash, and all Laurie could remember was the terror, and the pain.
She reached out and switched on the lamp by her bed, and the beam of light washed away the terror.
But not the pain. That was still there, twisting in her abdomen, as if someone had plunged a knife into her.
A knife!
Blood? Had there been blood?
Then she felt it — a warm stickiness between her legs. Her heart pounding, Laurie pushed the covers back,
