greatest fear was the one spoken in whispers, that because of the circumstances of her conception and birth, Marisa could be infected with the most dreaded of all diseases, leprosy.
Meyer and Rose showered all their love upon their granddaughter, whom they called Marisa Devora and who was the last of their living kin. Unfortunately, no amount of their goodwill could change the nervousness of a community which had been so badly hurt by the passage of the years that they feared anything that might bring more trouble into their midst.
Again, Hamid el Faisir, who had reported favourably on the household ben Joseph, came together with Meyer. This time they joined forces to try to protect Marisa from those who, driven by unreasoned anxiety, threatened harm to the fatherless child.
The strength of the two proved to be sadly insufficient against the many. One evening, when it was almost sundown, Marisa was wrest from them and taken into the desert. There, a dried water-hole had been filled with the blood of several lambs and a meagre shelter had been built to shield the child from the last rays of the desert sun.
As if she were being baptized in blood, the little girl was submerged and held there until nightfall. Being barely six years old, she could certainly not fight her way out of the grasp of strong adults. She could have cried out, but she did not even do that and appeared, instead, to submit herself to the wishes of the good people of Jerusalem.
In the house in the district of Mea Shearim, Hamid said in an anguished voice, 'Surely they intend to dry her off and carry her home at the rise of the moon.'
'Surely they do,' Meyer agreed, his eyes filled with tears for his granddaughter. 'What do you say, Rose?'
Rose said nothing. She left the house and walked into the desert. Even had she wanted to speak, her anger and foreboding would have prevented the words from forming on her tongue. As the rim of the moon appeared on the horizon, she came upon the child.
She stood at a distance, her gaze riveted upon the little girl.
The child had never looked more contented. She dabbled happily in the red pond, drinking from her cupped hand with an eagerness she had never shown for her grandmother's chicken soup.
Looking up, Rose saw the Stranger, tall and hooded, riding a camel led by his manservant. 'No,' she cried out, as the townsfolk stepped aside and he laid claim to Marisa Devora.
The child raised her arms and the manservant lifted her up. The Stranger took her, seated her astride the camel with him, and rode away.
Rose wept, but she did nothing to try to stop him.
At dawn, the people of Jerusalem returned to their daily business and to gossiping of other things. Only then did Rose cease her weeping and make her report to Meyer ben Joseph and Hamid el Faisir. She did not tell them that she had heard a female voice, calling the man and the child to join her. She did not say that Lilith had taken the man and the child to her bosom.
Meyer and his friend Hamid embraced each other. Now it was their turn to weep. Then they dried their tears and waited as the message of Marisa Devora and the dark Stranger travelled to Cyprus and reached the ears of Amalric. 'Beware,' the messenger said. 'In the land of Canaan, there is a daughter of Lilith who is loved by man and God and Allah and marked by the devil. Do not cause her to be angry, for her anger could devour you all.'
One Among Millions
Yvonne Navarro
Yvonne Navarro is a Chicago-area writer with twelve published novels and sixty-plus stories to her credit. Her latest solo book is the suspense novel , That's Not My Name, and she has also written a number of media tie-in books such as Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Paleo, Species, and others. In the limited time between a score of ongoing writing projects and her study of martial arts, she dreams, still, of relocating to the never-ending sunshine and heat of the American southwest .
' 'One Among Millions' evolved from a pretty run-of-the-mill 'what if question,' explains the author, 'namely , What if you were being stalked by someone? From there it grew to the stalker being a vampire, but why would a vampire do such a thing to an ordinary woman unless the woman were anything but ordinary .
' So many people think vampire stories are used up, out of vogue, or all the same; I think they couldn't be more wrong. Yes, vampirism is about stealing, but it isn't just about blood. It's about the theft, or loss, of life, of self, of everything that you are or could have ever been, the evolution of that thing that you once were into something you might or might not be able to control. There's so much potential in it, and there always will be. Those who turn up their noses and declare vampires are extinct should remember their own mortality. New generations of readers are born every day, and they are always hungry.
'Just like vampires.'
Sondra knew exactly when the vampire started stalking her and the babies.
She called the police and they came out to the house, two dutiful small-town, small-minded men with beer bellies and the smell of grease and old cigarettes on their clothes. The twins, their cherubic blue-eyed faces achingly beautiful beneath wispy, platinum curls, cooed and giggled from the playpen in their room, oblivious to the terror on their mother's face and the tense conversation a room away.
'Listen,' Sondra said, 'I've seen it following us'
'It?' The older of the two cops wore a name tag that said McShaw and sent his partner a meaningful look. He jotted something quickly on the form attached to his clipboard.
'Him, I mean.' Her face was calm but inside she slapped herself for the verbal slip. Fear was a nasty, constant companion and could cause all kinds of mistakes, make a person tell the truth when that was the last thing in the world she wanted to do. She couldn't afford the truth here, not when the price was Mallory and Meleena's safety. 'I've seen him .'
'Okay.' The other lawman was younger but headed the way of his chunky partner; too many donuts and sitting on his ass in the patrol car, wheeling around town and thinking he looked so smart in his blue uniform and spit- shined shoes, the carefully oiled .38 snug in its leather holster. Galena was far enough from Chicago to leave the murders and brutality to the city folk; little occupied these men during the day besides petty theft and speeding
