Eternity (v5)

Chapter Thirty-five

I didn’t know why I felt so certain that a man I’d merely read about on the internet could answer my questions. Especial y since his specialty was vampires, and I’d come to believe that I was something else entirely. But I was desperate for answers, and desperation bred overconfidence, I guessed. I thought that if he could just tel me what I was—and my purpose—I’d be able to make sense of this madness.

When morning came, I cleaned up as best I could in the coffee shop bathroom and left my little haven for a bookstore, camping out at a Dunkin’

Donuts afterward. It offered an excel ent view of the entrance to the building where Professor McMaster held office hours. At exactly two minutes to nine, I watched as a disheveled-looking elderly man with frizzy gray hair raced into the building. At first, the man caught my attention because he was seriously underdressed for the cold, wearing only a tatty-looking blazer tossed on over a button-down shirt. Then I realized that the man resembled the photo from the Harvard website, even though he looked significantly older. I decided that it was definitely Professor McMaster.

I waited two minutes, and then fol owed him into the building. I didn’t want to bombard him, but I needed to be the first in line for his nine A.M. to eleven A.M. office hours. Instead of taking the elevator, as he did, I climbed the two flights of stairs to his office. Passing by what looked like a departmental secretary, I walked directly to his door—which was closed.

Double-checking the posted office hours to be sure I had the right time, I knocked on the door. Other than a rustle of papers and the squeak of a desk chair, I didn’t hear anything. So I knocked again.

“I heard you the first time. I’l be with you in a moment,” a gravel y, very slightly accented voice answered. And he didn’t sound happy.

“Thanks,” I said sheepishly. This wasn’t exactly the start for which I’d hoped.

A few minutes later, I heard a series of locks jangle. Then the door creaked open, just a sliver. “Come in, come in,” he said impatiently.

I slid through the smal opening Professor McMaster provided. He then closed and locked the door behind us. After the greeting I’d received and the frazzled state of the professor, I wasn’t exactly excited to be in a locked office with him. But what were my choices?

I didn’t want to be presumptuous and take the seat opposite his desk, so I stood there until invited. He made some grumbling noises as he stepped over the piles of papers littering the floor to get to his desk chair. Once he settled in, he just stared at me with his surprisingly bright and clear brown eyes.

“What are you waiting for?” He gestured to the guest chair.

I hustled over to the battered wooden chair and sat down. I had planned on introducing myself as a Harvard student writing for the daily newspaper— The Harvard Crimson—that wanted to conduct an interview of him. I’d even bought and put on a Harvard sweatshirt, and carried a copy of the Crimson on top of my notebook. But the professor’s manner was so gruff and odd, I hesitated. Much to the professor’s irritation.

He stuck out his open hand in my direction. “Come on, miss. Have you got it or not?”

“Got what?”

“Your seminar paper. Today’s office hours are reserved exclusively for my Eastern European Myths and Legends seminar students.”

He saw my blank stare and squinted at me. “You are in my seminar, are you not?”

“No, I’m not. I am actual y a—”

He cut me off. “Then I must ask you to leave. You may come back during my regular office hours on Friday.”

“I’m afraid I real y can’t wait until Friday, Professor McMaster.”

“I’m afraid you do not have a choice, Miss—”

“Faneuil.”

“Come along, Miss Faneuil. There are no imminent deadlines in my other two courses, so you wil have to wait until Friday. The seminar students have priority.”

I launched into my little plan. I thought I’d play on his vanity with The Harvard Crimson interview—everybody liked to talk about themselves—and then sneak in my questions. That way, I wouldn’t scare him off. I just kept my fingers crossed that he wouldn’t ask for any Crimson identification.

“I promise I won’t take up too much of your time, Professor McMaster. I’m a writer with The Harvard Crimson, and we would like to do an interview of you for our magazine section. I would’ve set up an appointment with your secretary, but we have an unexpected opening today and we would love to fil it with an interview of you.” I looked down at my notepad as if consulting some notes. “My staff told me that we’ve never done a formal interview of you, and we’d like to rectify that situation.”

The professor’s face softened. I could tel that he real y didn’t want to do an interview, but felt obliged. He said, “My apologies, Miss Faneuil.”

“I’m the one who should apologize, Professor McMaster. As I said, I real y should have made an appointment with your secretary. Especial y since this seems like a real y busy time.”

“It is indeed. I am ful y committed to student appointments through the afternoon. However, I can offer you fifteen minutes right now, before the first student starts clamoring for his meeting.”

“I real y appreciate it, Professor.” I looked back down at my notepad of “interview” questions, and said, “Let’s not waste a minute.”

Quickly, I asked him a series of basic questions about his background and areas of expertise. He was responsive enough, although he was visibly uncomfortable. His discomfort increased when I started on the questions I real y wanted to know about—the characteristics of vampires. And what—if anything—he knew about