In Darkness, Angels

by Eric Van Lustbader

Eric Van Lustbader is the bestselling author of The Ninja and the others in the Nicholas Linnear cycle, as well as The Pearl Saga and The Sunset Warrior cycle, and a number of other novels. His latest books are the presidential thriller First Daughter and The Bourne Deception, the latest in Robert Ludlum’s Bourne series, which Lustbader took over after Ludlum’s death. The next Bourne novel, The Bourne Objective, is due to be published in June 2010.

Vampires are scary. And you know what else is scary? In-laws. So it stands to reason that this is going to be one scary story. We fall in love with individuals, but we don’t always appreciate that in the bargain we’ll be getting their family too—a whole web of relationships and past events that are unknown to us. And when those past events stretch back centuries? Let’s just say that you may have been in relationships where you felt like your lover’s family members were out for blood. But probably never quite like this.

If I had known then what I know now.

How those words echo on and on inside my mind, like a rubber ball bouncing down an endless staircase. As if they had a life of their own. Which, I suppose, they do now.

I cannot sleep but is it any wonder ? Outside, blue-white lightning forks like a giant’s jagged claw and the thunder is so loud at times that I feel I must be trapped inside an immense bell, reverberations like memory unspooling in a reckless helix, making a mess at my feet.

If I had known then what I know now. And yet….

And yet I return again and again to that windswept evening when the ferry deposited me at the east end of the island. It had once been, so I had been told by the rather garrulous captain, a swansneck peninsula. But over time, the water had gradually eaten away at the rocky soil until at last the land had succumbed to the ocean’s cool tidal embrace, severing itself from the mainland a mile away.

Of course the captain had an entirely different version of what had transpired. “It’s them folks up there,” he had said, jerking his sharp unshaven chin toward the castle high atop the island’s central mount. “Didn’t want no more interference from the other folks hereabouts.” He gave a short barking laugh and spat over the boat’s side. “Just as well, I say,” he observed as he squinted heavily into the last of the dying sun’s watery light. “Them rocks were awfully sharp.” He shook his head as if weighed down by the memory. “Kids were always darin one another t’do their balancin act goin across, down that long spit o land.” He turned the wheel hard over and spuming water rushed up the bow of the ferry. “Many’s the night we’d come out with the searchlights, tryin to rescue some fool boy’d gone over.”

For just a moment he swung us away from the island looming up on our starboard side, getting the most out of the crosswinds. “Never found em, though. Not a one.” He spat again. “You go over the side around here, you’re never seen again.”

“The undertow,” I offered.

He whipped his ruddy windburned face around, impaling me with one pale-gray eye. “Undertow, you say?” His laugh was harsh now and unpleasant. “You gotta lot t’learn up there at Fuego del Aire, boyo. Oh, yes indeed!”

He left me on the quayside with no one around to mark my arrival. As the wide-beamed ferry tacked away, pushed by the strong sunset wind, I thought I saw the captain raise an arm in my direction.

I turned away from the sea. Great stands of pine, bristly and dark in the failing light, marched upward in majestic array toward the castle high above me. Their tops whipsawed, sending off an odd melancholy drone.

I felt utterly, irretrievably alone and for the first time since I had sent the letter I began to feel the queasy fluttering of reservations. An odd kind of inner darkness had settled about my shoulders like a vulture descending upon the flesh of the dead.

I took a deep breath and shook my head to clear it. The captain’s stories were only words strung one after the other—all the legends just words and nothing more. Now I would see for myself. After all, that was what I wanted.

The last of the sunset torched the upper spires so that for a moment they looked like bloody spears. Imagination, that’s all it was. A writer’s imagination. I clutched at my battered weekender and continued onward, puffing, for the way was steep. But I had arrived at just the right time of the day when the scorching sun was gone from the sky and night’s deep chill had not yet settled over the land.

The air was rich with the scents of the sea, an agglomeration so fecund it took my breath away. Far off over the water, great gulls twisted and turned in lazy circles, skimming over the shining face of the ocean only to whirl high aloft, disappearing for long moments into the fleecy pink and yellow clouds.

From the outside, the castle seemed stupendous. It was immense, thrusting upward into the sky as if it were about to take off in flight. It was constructed—obviously many years ago—from massive blocks of granite laced with iridescent chips of mica that shone like diamonds, rubies and sapphires in the evening’s light.

A fairy tale castle it surely looked with its shooting turrets and sharply angled spires, horned and horrific. However, on closer inspection, I saw that it had been put together with nothing more fantastic than mortar.

Below me, a mist was beginning to form, swiftly climbing the route I had taken moments before as if following me. Already the sight of the quay had been snuffed out and the cries of the gulls, filtered through the stuff, were eerie and vaguely disquieting.

I climbed the basalt steps to the front door of the castle. The span was fully large enough to drive a semi through. It was composed of a black substance that seemed to be neither stone nor metal. Cautiously, I ran my hand over its textured surface. It was petrified wood. In its center was a circular scrollwork knocker of black iron and this I used.

There was surprisingly little noise but almost immediately the door swung inward. At first I could see nothing. The creeping mist had curled itself around the twilight, plunging me into a dank and uncomfortable night.

“Yes?” It was a melodious voice, light and airy. A woman’s voice.

I told her my name.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “We tend to lose track of time at Fuego del Aire. I am Marissa. Of course you were expected. My brother will be extremely angry that you were not met at the quay.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “I thoroughly enjoyed the walk.”

“Won’t you come in.”

I picked up my suitcase and crossed the threshold, felt her slim hand slip into mine. The hallway was as dark as the night outside. I did not hear the door swing shut but when I looked back the sky and the rolling mist were gone.

I heard the rustling of her just in front of me and I could smell a scent like a hillside of flowers at dusk. Her skin was as soft as velvet but the flesh beneath was firm and supple and I found myself suddenly curious to find out what she looked like. Did she resemble the image in my thoughts? A thin, pale waif-like creature, faint blue traceries of veins visible beneath her thin delicate skin, her long hair as black as a raven’s wings.

After what seemed an interminable time, we emerged into a dimly lighted chamber from which all other rooms on this floor seemed to branch. Directly ahead of us, an enormous staircase wound upward. It was certainly wide enough for twenty people to ascend abreast.

Torches flickered and the smoky, perfumed air was thick with the scent of burning tallow and whale oil. Uncomfortable looking furniture lined the walls: bare, wooden stiff-backed benches and chairs one might find in a Methodist church. Huge, heavy banners hung limply but they were so high above my head and the light so poor I could not make out their designs.

Marissa turned to face me and I saw that she was not at all as I had imagined her.

True, she was beautiful enough. But her cheeks were ruddy, her eyes cornflower blue and her hair was the color of sun-dazzled honey, falling in thick, gentle waves from a thin tortoise-shell band that held it from her face, back over her head, across her shoulders, cascading all the way down to the small of her back.

Her coral lips pursed as if she could not help the smile that now brightened her face. “Yes,” she said softly, musically, “you are truly surprised.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Am I staring?” I gave an unnatural laugh. Of course I was staring. I could not stop.

“Perhaps you are weary from your climb. Would you like some food now? A cool drink to refresh you?”

“I would like to meet Morodor,” I said, breaking my eyes away from her gaze with a concerted effort. She seemed to possess an ability to draw emotion out of me, as if she held the key to channels in myself I did not know existed.

“In time,” she said. “You must be patient. There are many pressing matters that need attending to. Only he can see to them. I am certain you understand.”

Indeed I did not. To have come this far, to have waited so long… all I felt was frustration. Like a hurt little boy, I had wanted Morodor to greet me at the front door by way of apology for the discourtesy of the utter stillness at the quay when I arrived. But no. There were more important matters for him.

“When I wrote to your brother—”

Marissa had lifted her long pale palm. “Please,” she said, smiling. “Be assured that my brother wishes to aid you. I suspect that is because he is a writer himself. There is much time here at Fuego del Aire and lately his contemplation has found this somewhat more physical outlet.”

I thought of the grisly stories the ferryboat captain had heaped on me—and others, over time, that had come my way from other loquacious mouths—and felt a chill creeping through my bones at the idea of Morodor’s physical outlets.

“It must be fascinating to be able to write novels,” Marissa said. “I must confess that I was quite selfishly happy when I learned of your coming. Your writing has given me much pleasure.” She touched the back of my hand as if I might be a sculpture of great artistry. “This extraordinary talent must make you very desirable in… your world.”

“You mean literary circles… entertainment….”

“Circles, yes. You are quite special. My brother doubtless divined this from your letter.” She took her fingertips from me. “But now it is late and I am certain you are tired. May I show you to your room? Food and drink are waiting for you there.”

That night there was no moon. Or rather no moon could be seen. Nor the stars nor even the sky itself. Peering out the window of my turret room, I could see nothing but the whiteness of the mist. It was as if the rest of the world had vanished.

Gripping the edge of the windowsill with my fingers, I leaned out as far as I dared, peering into the night in an attempt to pick up any outline, any shape. But not even the tops of the enormous pines could poke their way through the pall.

I strained to hear the comforting hiss and suck of the ocean spending itself on the rocky shore so far below me. There was nothing of that, only the odd intermittent whistling of the wind through the stiff-fingered turrets of the castle.

At length I went back to bed, but for the longest time I could not fall asleep. I had waited so long for Morodor’s reply to my letter, had traveled for so many days just to be here now, it seemed impossible to relax enough for sleep to overtake me.

I was itchy with anticipation. Oh more. I was burning…. In the days after I had received his affirmative answer, the thought of coming here, of talking to him, of learning his secrets had, more and more, come to stand for my own salvation.

It is perhaps difficult enough for any author to be blocked in his work. But for me… I lived to write. Without it, there seemed no reason at all to live, for I had found during this blocked time that the days and nights passed like months, years, centuries, as ponderous as old elephants. They had become my burden.

I had been like a machine, feverishly turning out one book after another—one a year—for… how many years now? Fifteen? Twenty? You see, the enfant terrible has lost count already. Mercifully.

Until this year when there was nothing, a desert of paper, and I grew increasingly desperate, sitting home like a hermit, traveling incessantly, bringing smiling girls home, abstaining, swinging from one extreme to the other like a human pendulum in an attempt to get the insides in working order again.

Nothing.

And then one drunken night I had heard the first of the stories about Fuego del Aire and, even through the vapors of my stupor, something had penetrated. An idea, perhaps or, more accurately at that point, the ghost of an idea. Of lost love, betrayal and the ultimate horror. As simple as that. And as complex. But I knew that imagination was no longer enough, that I would have to seek out this place myself. I had to find Morodor and somehow persuade him to see me….

Sleep. I swear to you it finally came, although, oddly, it was like no slumber I had ever had, for I dreamed that I was awake and trying desperately to fall asleep. I knew that I was to see Morodor in the morning, that I had to be sharp and that, sleepless, I would fall far short of that.

In the dream I lay awake, clutching the bedspread up around my chest, staring at the ceiling with such intensity that I suspected at any minute I would be able to see right through it.

I opened my eyes. Or closed them and opened them again to find the dawnlight streaming through the tall narrow window. I had forgotten to close the curtains before going to bed.

For just an instant I had the strangest sensation in my body. It was as if my legs had gone dead, all the strength flowing out of my muscles and into the wooden floor of my room. But the paralysis had somehow freed my upper torso so that I felt an enormous outpouring of energy.

A brief stab of fear rustled through my chest and my heart fluttered. But as soon as I sat up, the sensation went away. I rose, washed, dressed and went down to breakfast.

Food was waiting in steaming array along the length of an immense wooden table. In fact, now that I had my first good look at Fuego del Aire in the light of day, I saw that everything was of wood: the paneled walls, the floor where you could see it between the series of dark-patterned carpets, the cathedral ceilings; door handles, windowsills, even the lighting fixtures. If I had not seen the outside of the castle myself, I would have sworn the place had been built entirely of wood.

Two formal settings were laid out, one at the head of the table and the other by its left side. Assuming the first was for Morodor, I settled into the side chair and began to help myself.

But it was not Morodor who came down the wide staircase; it was Marissa. She was, that morning, a sight to make the heart pound. It was as if the sun had detached itself from its prescribed route across the heavens and had descended to earth. She wore a sky-blue tunic, wrapped criss-cross between her breasts and around her narrow waist with a deep green satin sash. On her feet she wore rope sandals. I saw that one of her toes was girdled by a tiny gold ring.

Her smile as she approached had the warmth of summer itself. And her hair! How can I adequately describe the way her hair shone in the daylight, sparkling and glittering as if each strand were itself some mysterious source of light. Those waves of golden honey acted as if they had a life of their own.

“Good morning,” she said easily. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes,” I lied. “Perfectly.” I lifted a bowl of green figs. “Fruit?”

“Yes, please. Just a bit.” But even with that she left more on her plate than she ate.

“I was hoping to find your brother already awake,” I said, finishing up my meal.

She smiled sweetly. “Unfortunately, he is not an early riser. Be patient. All will be well.” She rose. “If you are finished, I imagine you are quite curious about Fuego del Aire. There is much here to see.”

We went out of the main hall, through corridors and chambers one after another, so filled, so disparate that I soon became dizzied with wonder. The place seemed to go on forever.

At length we emerged into a room that, judging by its accouterments, must once have been a scullery. We crossed it quickly and went through a small door I did not see until Marissa pulled it open.

The mist of last night had gone completely and above was only an enormous cerulean sky clear of cloud or bird. I could hear the distant sea hurling itself with ceaseless abandon at the jagged base of the mount. But lowering my gaze I saw only foliage.

“The garden,” Marissa breathed, slipping her hand into mine. “Come on.” She took me past a field of tiger lilies, rows of flowering woodbine; through a rose garden of such humbling perfection, it took my breath away.

Beyond, we came upon a long sculptured hedge half again as tall as I stand. There was a long narrow opening through which she led me and immediately we were surrounded by high walls of hedges. They were lushly verdant and immaculately groomed so that it was impossible to say where one left off and another began, seamless on and on and—

“What is this place?” I said.

But Marissa did not answer until, after many twistings and turnings, we were deep within. Then she faced me and said, “This is the labyrinth. My brother had it constructed for me when I was just a child. Perhaps he thought it would keep me out of trouble.”

“There is a way out,” I said uneasily, looking around me at the dark-green screens looming up on every side.

“Oh yes.” She laughed, a bell-like silvery tone. “It is up here.” And tapped the side of her head with a slender forefinger. “This is where I come to think, when I am sad or distraught. It is so peaceful and still and no one can find me here if I choose to remain hidden, not even Morodor. This is my domain.”

She began to lead me onward, through switchbacks, past cul-de-sacs, moving as unerringly as if she were a magnet being drawn toward the North Pole. And I followed her silently; I was already lost.

“My brother used to say to me, ‘Marissa, this labyrinth is unique in all the world for I have made it from the blueprint of your mind. All these intricate convolutions… the pattern corresponds to the eddies and whorls of your own brain.’”

She stared at me with those huge mocking eyes, so blue it seemed as if the noonday sky were reflected there. The hint of a smile played at the corners of her lips. “But of course I was only a child then and always trying to do what he did… to be like him.” She shrugged. “He was most likely trying to make me feel special… don’t you think?”

“He wouldn’t need this place to do that,” I said. “How on earth do you find your way out of here?” Nothing she had said had lessened my uneasiness.

“The years,” she said seriously, “have taken care of that.”

She pulled at me and we sat, our torsos in the deep shade of the hedges, our stretched-out legs in the buttery warmth of the sunlight. Somewhere, close at hand, a bumblebee buzzed fatly, contentedly.

I put my head back and watched the play of light and shadow on the hedge opposite us. Ten thousand tiny leaves moved minutely in the soft breeze as if I were watching a distant crowd fluttering lifted handkerchiefs at the arrival of some visiting emperor. A kind of dreamy warmth stole over me and at once my uneasiness was gone.

“Yes,” I told her. “It is peaceful here.”

“I am glad,” she said. “You feel it too. Perhaps that is because you are a writer. A writer feels things more deeply, is that not so?”

I smiled. “Maybe some, yes. We’re always creating characters for our stories so we have to be adept at pulling apart the people we meet. We have to be able to get beyond the world and, like a surgeon, expose their workings.”

“And you’re never frightened of such things?”

“Frightened? Why?”

“Of what you’ll find there.”

“I’ve discovered many things there over the years. How could all of them be pleasant? Why should I want them to be? I sometimes think that many of my colleagues live off the unpleasant traits they find beneath the surface.” I shrugged. “In any event, nothing seems to work well without the darkness of conflict. In life as well as in writing.”

Her eyes opened and she looked at me sideways. “Am I wrong to think that knowledge is very important to you?”

“What could be more important to a writer? I sometimes think there is a finite amount of knowledge—not to be assimilated—but that can be used.”

“And that is why you have come here.”

“Yes.”

She looked away. “You have never married. Why is that?”

I shrugged while I thought about that for a moment. “I imagine it’s because I’ve never fallen in love.”

She smiled at that. “Never ever. Not in all the time—”

I laughed. “Now wait a minute! I’m not that old. Thirty-seven is hardly ancient.”

“Thirty-seven,” she mouthed softly, as if she were repeating words alien to her. “Thirty-seven. Really?”

“Yes.” I was puzzled. “How old are you?”

“As old as I look.” She tossed her hair. “I told you last night. Time means very little here.”

“Oh yes, day to day. But I mean you must—”

“No more talk now,” she said, rising and pulling at my hand. “There is too much to see.”

We left the labyrinth by a simple enough path, though, left to myself, I undoubtedly would have wandered around in there until someone had the decency to come and get me.

Presently we found ourselves at a stone parapet beyond which the peak dropped off so precipitously that it seemed as if we were standing on the verge of a rift in the world.

This was the western face of the island, one that I had not seen on my journey here. Far below us—certainly more than a thousand feet—the sea creamed and sucked at the jagged rocks, iced at their base by shining pale-gray barnacles. Three or four large lavender and white gulls dipped and wheeled through the foaming spray as they searched for food.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Marissa said.

But I had already turned from the dark face of the sea to watch the planes and hollows of her own shining face, lit by the soft summer light, all rose and golden, radiating a warmth….

It took me some time to understand the true nature of that heat. It stemmed from the same spot deep inside me from which had leaped that sharp momentary anger.

“Marissa,” I breathed, saying her name as if it were a prayer.

And she turned to me, her cornflower blue eyes wide, her full lips slightly parted, shining. I leaned over her, coming closer inch by inch until I had to shut my eyes or cross them. Then I felt the brush of her lips against mine, so incredibly soft, at first cool and fragrant, then quickly warming to blood-heat.

“No,” she said, her voice muffled by our flesh. “Oh, don’t.” But her lips opened under mine and I felt her hot tongue probing into my mouth.

My arms went around her, pulling her to me as gently as I would handle a stalk of wheat. I could feel the hard press of her breasts, the round softness of her stomach, and the heat. The heat rising….

And with the lightning comes the rain. That’s from an old poem my mother used to sing to me late at night when the storms woke me up. I cannot remember any more of it. Now it’s just a fragment of truth, an artifact unearthed from the silty riverbed of my mind. And I the archeologist of this region as puzzled as everyone else at what I sometimes find. But that, after all, is what has kept me writing, year after year. An engine of creation.

The night is impenetrable with cloud and the hissing downpour. But still I stand at my open window, high up above the city, at the very edge of heaven.

I cannot see the streets below me—the one or two hurrying people beneath their trembling umbrellas or the lights of the cars, if indeed there are any out at this ungodly hour—just the spectral geometric patterns, charcoal-gray on black, of the buildings’ tops closest to mine. But not as high. None of them is as high.

Nothing exists now but this tempest and its fury. The night is alive with it, juddering and crackling. Or am I wrong? Is the night alive with something else? I know. I know.

I hear the sound of them now….

The days passed like the most intense of dreams. The kind where you can recall every single detail any time you wish, producing its emotions again and again with a conjurer’s facility.

Being with Marissa, I forgot about my obsessive desire to seek out Morodor. I no longer asked her where he was or when I would get to see him. In fact, I hoped I never would, for, if there were any truth to the legends of Fuego del Aire, they most assuredly must stem from his dark soul and not from this creature of air and light who never left my side.

In the afternoons we strolled through the endless gardens—for she was ill at ease indoors—and holding her hand seemed infinitely more joyous than looking upon the castle’s illimitable marvels. I fully believe that if we had chanced upon a griffin during one of those walks I would have taken no more notice of it than I would an alley cat.

However, no such fabled creature made its appearance, and as the time passed I became more and more convinced that there was no basis at all to the stories that had been told and re-told over the years. The only magical power Marissa possessed was the one that enabled her to cut to the very core of me with but one word or the merest touch of her flesh against mine.

“I lied to you,” I told her one day. It was late afternoon. Thick dark sunlight slanted down on our shoulders and backs, as slow-running as honey. The cicadas wailed like beaten brass and butterflies danced like living jewels in and out of the low bushes and the blossoms as if they were a flock of children playing tag.

“About what?”

“When I said that I had never been in love.” I turned over on my back, staring up at a fleecy cloud piled high, a castle in the sky. “I was. Once.”

I took her hand, rubbed my thumb over the delicate bones ribbing the back. “It was when I was in college. We met in a child psychology class and fell in love without even knowing it.”

For a moment there was a silence between us and I thought perhaps I had made a mistake in bringing it up.

“But you did not marry her.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“We were from different… backgrounds.” I turned to see her face peering at me, seeming as large as the sun in the sky. “I think it would be difficult to explain to you, Marissa. It had something to do with religion.”

“Religion.” Again she rolled a word off her tongue as if trying to get the taste of a new and exotic food. “I am not certain that I understand.”

“We believed in different things—or, more accurately, she believed and I didn’t.”

“And there was no room for… compromise?”

“In this, no. But the ironic part of all of it is that now I have begun to believe, if just a little bit; and she, I think, has begun to disbelieve some of what she had always held sacred.”

“How sad,” Marissa said. “Will you go back to her?”

“Our time has long passed.”

Something curious had come into her eyes. “Then you believe that love has a beginning and an end, always.”

I could no longer bear to have those fantastic eyes riveting me. “I had thought so.”

“Why do you look away?”

“I—” I watched the sky. The cloud-castle had metamorphosed into a great humpbacked bird. “I don’t know.”

Her eyes were very clear, piercing though the natural light was dusky. “We are explorers,” she said, “at the very precipice of time.” Something in her voice drew me. “Can there really be a love without end?”

Now she began to search my face in detail as if she were committing it to memory, as if she might never see me again. And that wild thought brought me fully out of my peaceful dozing.

“Do you love me?”

“Yes,” I whispered with someone else’s voice. Like a dry wind through sere reeds. And pulled her down to me.

At night we seemed even closer. It was as if I had taken a bit of the sun to bed with me: she was as radiant at night as she was during the day, light and supple and so eager to be held, to be caressed. To be loved.

“Feel how I feel,” she whispered, trembling, “when I am close to you.” She stretched herself over me. “The mouth can lie with words but the body cannot. This heat is real. All love flows out through the body, do you know that?”

I was beyond being able to respond verbally.

She moved her fingertips on me, then the petal softness of her palms. “I feel your body. How you respond to me. Its depth. As if I were the moon and you the sea.” Her lips were at my ear, her esses sibilant. “It is important. More important than you know.”

“Why?” I sighed.

“Because only love can mend my heart.”

I wondered at the scar there. I moved against her, opening her legs.

“Darling!”

I met Morodor on the first day of my second week at Fuego del Aire. And then it seemed quite by chance.

It was just after breakfast and Marissa had gone back to her room to change. I was strolling along the second-floor balustrade when I came across a niche in the wall that I had missed before.

I went through it and found myself on a parapet along the jutting north side of the castle. It was like hanging in mid-air and I would have been utterly stunned by the vista had I not almost immediately run into a dark towering shape.

Hastily I backed up against the stone wall of the castle, thinking I had inadvertently run into another outcropping of this odd structure.

Then, quite literally, it seemed as if a shadow had come to life. It detached itself from the edge of the parapet and now I could see that it was the figure of a man.

He must have been nearly seven feet tall and held about him a great ebon cape, thick and swirling, that rushed down his slender form so that it hissed against the stone floor when he moved.

He turned toward me and I gasped. His face was long and narrow, as bony as a corpse’s, his skin fully as pale. His eyes, beneath darkly furred brows, were bits of bituminous matter as if put there to plug a pair of holes into his interior. His nose was long and thin to the point of severity but his lips were full and rubicund, providing the only bit of color to his otherwise deathly pallid face.

His lips opened infinitesimally and he spoke my name. Involuntarily, I shuddered and immediately saw something pass across his eyes: not anger or sorrow but rather a weary kind of resignation.

“How do you do.”

The greeting was so formal that it startled me and I was tongue-tied. After all this time, he had faded from my mind and now I longed only to be with Marissa. I found myself annoyed with him for intruding upon us.

“Morodor,” I said. I had the oddest impulse to tell him that what he needed most was a good dose of sunshine. That almost made me giggle. Almost.

“Pardon me for saying this but I thought… that is, to see you up and around, outside in the daylight—” I stopped, my cheeks burning, unable to go on. I had done it anyway. I cursed myself for the fool that I was.

But Morodor took no offense. He merely smiled—a perfectly ghastly sight—and inclined his head a fraction. “A rather common misconception,” he said in his disturbing, rumbling voice. “It is in fact direct sunlight that is injurious to my health. I am like a fine old print.” His dark hair brushed against his high forehead. “I quite enjoy the daytime, otherwise.”

“But surely you must sleep sometime.”

He shook his great head. “Sleep is unknown to me. If I slept, I would dream and this is not allowed me.” He took a long hissing stride along the parapet. “Come,” he said. “Let us walk.” I looked back the way I had come and he said, “Marissa knows we are together. Do not fear. She will be waiting for you when we are finished.”

Together we walked along the narrow parapet. Apparently, it girdled the entire castle, for I saw no beginning to it and no end.

“You may wonder,” Morodor said in his booming, vibratory voice, “why I granted you this interview.” His great cape swept around him like the coils of a midnight sea so that it seemed as if he kept the night around him wherever he went. “I sensed in your writing a certain desperation.” He turned to me. “And desperation is an emotion with which I can empathize.”

“It was kind of you to see me.”

“Kind, yes.”

“But I must confess that things have… changed since I wrote that letter.”

“Indeed.” Was that a vibratory warning?

“Yes,” I plunged onward. “In fact, since I came here, I—” I paused, not knowing how to continue. “The change has come since I arrived at Fuego del Aire.”

Morodor said nothing and we continued our perambulation around the perimeter of the castle. Now I could accurately judge just how high up we were. Perhaps that mist I had seen the first night had been a cloud passing us as if across the face of the moon. And why not? All things seemed possible here. It struck me as ridiculous that just fifty miles from here there were supertankers and express trains, Learjets and paved streets lined with shops dispensing sleekly packaged products manufactured by multinational corporations. Surely all those modern artifacts were part of a fading dream I once had.

The sea was clear of sails for as far as the horizon. It was a flat and glittering pool there solely for the pleasure of this man.

“I’m in love with your sister.” I had blurted it out and now I stood stunned, waiting, I suppose, for the full brunt of his wrath.

But instead, he stopped and stared at me. Then he threw his head back and laughed, a deep booming sound like thunder. Far off, a gull screeched, perhaps in alarm.

“My dear sir,” he said. “You really are the limit!”

“And she’s in love with me.”

“Oh oh oh. I have no doubt that she is.”

“I don’t—”

His brows gathered darkly like stormclouds. “You believe your race to be run.” He moved away. “But fear, not love, ends it.” Through another niche, he slid back inside the castle. It was as if he had passed through the wall.

“If I had known that today was the day,” Marissa said, “I would have prepared you.”

“For what?”

We were sitting in a bower on a swing-chaise. Above our heads arched brilliant hyacinth and bougainvillea, wrapped around and around a white wooden trellis. It was near dusk and the garden was filled with a deep sapphire light that was almost luminescent. A westerly wind brought us the rich scent of the sea.

“For him. We are not… very much alike. At least, superficially.”

“Marissa,” I said, taking her hand, “are you certain that you are Morodor’s sister?”

“Of course I am. What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” But when she looked at me blankly, I was forced to go on. “What I mean is, he’s precisely… what he’s supposed to be. At least the way the legends describe… what he is.”

Her eyes grew dark and she jerked her hand away. She gave me a basilisk stare. “I should have known.” Her voice was filled with bitter contempt. “You’re just like the rest. And why shouldn’t you be?” She stood. “You think he’s a monster. Yes, admit it. A monster!”

Her eyes welled up with tears. “And that makes me a monster too, doesn’t it. Well, to hell with you!” And she whirled away.

“Marissa!” I cried in anguish. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

And I ran after her knowing that it was a lie, that it was what I had meant after all. Morodor was all the legends had said he should be. And more. My God but he was hideous. Pallid and cold as the dead. An engine of negative energy, incapable of any real feeling; of crying or true humor. Or love.

Only love can mend my heart.

I had meant it. How could this golden girl of air and sunlight bear any family ties to that great looming figure of darkness? Where was the sense in it? The rationality? She had feelings. She laughed and cried, felt pleasure and pain. And she loved. She loved.

“Marissa!” I called again, running. “Marissa, come back!” But she had vanished into the labyrinth and I stood there on the threshold, the scent of roses strong in my nostrils, and peered within. I called out her name over and over again but she did not appear and, unguided, I could not bring myself to venture farther.

Instead, I stormed back to the castle, searching for Morodor. It was already dark and the lights had been lit. As if by magic. In just the same way that the food was prepared, the wine bottles uncorked, my bed turned down in the evening and made in the morning, my soiled clothes washed, pressed and laid out with the professional’s precision. And all done without my seeing a soul.

I found Morodor in the library. It was a room as large as a gallery: at least three floors of books, rising upward until the neat rows were lost in the haze of distance. Narrow wooden walkways circled the library at various levels, connected by a complex network of wide wooden ladders.

He was crouched on one of these, three or four steps off the floor. It seemed an odd position for a man of his size.

He was studying a book as I came in but he quietly closed it when he heard me approach.

“What,” I said, rather nastily, “no leather bindings?”

His hard ebon eyes regarded me without obvious emotion. “Leather,” he said softly, “would mean the needless killing of animals.”

“Oh, I see.” My tone had turned acid. “It’s only humans who need fear you.”

He stood up and I backed away, abruptly fearful as he unfolded upward and upward until he stood over me in all his monstrous height.

“Humans,” he said, “fear me only because they choose to fear me.

“You mean you haven’t given them any cause to fear you?”

“Don’t be absurd.” He was as close to being annoyed as I had seen him. “I cannot help being what I am. Just as you cannot. We are both carnivores.”

I closed my eyes and shuddered. “But with what a difference!”

“To some I have been a god.”

“Such a dark god.” My eyes flew open.

“There is a need for that, too.” He put the book way. “Yet I am a man for all that.”

“A man who can’t sleep, who doesn’t dream.”

“Who cannot die.”

“Not even if I drive a stake through your heart?” I did not know whether or not I was serious.

He went across the room to where a strip of the wooden paneling intervened between two bookshelves. His hand merged from the folds of his voluminous cape and for the first time I saw the long talon-like nails exposed. I shivered as I saw them dig into the wood with ferocious strength. But not in any hot animal way. The movement was as precise as a surgeon peeling back a patient’s peritoneum.

Morodor returned with a shard of wood perhaps eighteen inches in length. It was slightly tapered at one end, not needle sharp but pointed enough to do its work. He thrust it into my hands. “Here,” he said harshly. “Do it now.”

For an instant, I intended to do just that. But then something inside me cooled. I threw the stake from me. “I’ll do no such thing.”

He actually seemed disappointed. “No matter. That part of the legend, as others, is incorrect.” He went back to his perch on the ladder, his long legs drawn up tightly beneath the cape, the outline of his bony knees like a violent set of punctuation marks on a blank page.

“Legends,” he said, “are like funerals. They both serve the same purpose. They give comfort without which the encroachment of terrifying entropy would snuff out man’s desire—his absolute hunger—for life.”

He looked from his long nails up into my face. “Legends are created to set up their own kind of terror. But it is a terror very carefully bounded by certain limitations: the werewolf can be killed by a silver bullet, the medusa by seeing her own reflection in a mirror.

“You see? Always there is a way out for the intrepid. It is a necessary safety valve venting the terror that lurks within all mankind—atavistic darkness, the unconscious. And death.”

He rested his long arms in his lap. “How secure do you imagine mankind would feel if all of them out there knew the reality of it? That there is no escape for me. No stake through the heart.”

“But you said direct sunlight—”

“Was injurious to me. Like the flu, nothing more.” He smiled wanly. “A week or two in bed and I am fit again.” He laughed sardonically.

“Assuming I believe you, why are you telling me this? By your own admission, mankind could not accept the knowledge.”

“Then you won’t tell them, will you?”

“But I know.”

He took a deep breath and for the first time his eyes seemed to come to life, sparking and dancing within their deep fleshless sockets. “Why did you wish to come here, my friend?”

“Why, I told you in the letter. I was blocked, out of ideas.”

“And now?”

I stared at him quizzically while it slowly began to wash over me. “I can tell them, can’t I?”

He smiled sphinx-like. “You are a writer. You can tell them anything you wish.”

“When I told you before that I was a man, I meant it.”

I was sitting with Morodor high up in one of the castle’s peaks, in what he called the cloud room. Like all the other chambers I had been in here, it was paneled in wood.

“I have a hunger to live just like all the rest of the masses.” He leaned back in his chair, shifting about as if he were uncomfortable. To his left and right, enormous windows stood open to the starry field of the night. There were no shutters, no curtains; they could not be closed. A sharp, chill wind blew in, ruffling his dark hair but he seemed oblivious to the caress. “But do not mistake my words. I speak not as some plutocrat bloated on wealth. It is only that I am… special.”

“What happened?”

His eyes flashed and he shifted again. “In each case, it is different. In mine… well, let us say that my hunger for life outweighed my caution.” He smiled bleakly. “But then I have never believed that caution was a desirable trait.”

“Won’t you tell me more.”

He looked at me in the most avuncular fashion. “I entered into a wager with… someone.”

“And you won.”

“No. I lost. But it was meant that I should lose. Otherwise, I would not be here now.” His eyes had turned inward and in so doing had become almost wistful. “I threw the dice one time, up against a wall of green baize.”

“You crapped out.”

“No. I entered into life.”

“And became El Amor Brujo. That’s what you’re sometimes called: the love sorcerer.”

“Because of my… hypnotic effect on women.” He moved minutely and his cape rustled all about him like a copse of trees stirred by a midnight wind. “A survival trait. Like seeing in the dark or having built-in radar.”

“Then there’s nothing magical—”

“There is,” he said, “magic involved. One learns… many arts over the years. I have time for everything.”

I shivered, pulled my leather jacket closer about me. He might not mind the chill, but I did. I pointed to the walls. “Tell me something. The outside of Fuego del Aire is pure stone. But here, inside, there is only wood. Why is that?”

“I prefer wood, my friend. I am not a creature of the earth and so stone insults me; its density inhibits me. I feel more secure with the wood.” His hand lifted, fluttered, dropped back into his lap. “Trees.” He said it almost as if it were a sacred word.

In the ensuing silence, I began to sweat despite the coldness. I knew what I at least was leading up to. I rubbed my palms down the fabric of my trousers. I cleared my throat.

“Morodor….”

“Yes.” His eyes were half-shut as if he were close to sleep.

“I really do love Marissa.”

“I know that.” But there seemed no kindness in his voice.

I took a deep breath. “We had a row. She thinks I see you as a monster.”

He did not move, his eyes did not open any wider, for which I was profoundly grateful. “In a world where so many possibilities exist, this is true. Yet I am also a man. And I am Marissa’s brother. I am friend… foe; master… servant. It is all in the perception.” Still he did not move. “What do you see, my friend?”

I wished he’d stop calling me that. I said nothing.

“If you are not truthful with me, I shall know it.” His ruby lips seemed to curve upward at their corners. “Something else you may add to the new legend… if you choose to write about it.”

“I’ve no wish to deceive you, Morodor. I’m merely trying to sort through my own feelings.” I thought he nodded slightly.

“I confess… to finding your appearance… startling.”

“I appreciate your candor.”

“Oh, hell, I thought you were hideous.”

“I see.”

“You hate me now.”

“Why should I hate you? Because you take the world view?”

“But that was at first. Already you’ve changed before my eyes. God knows I’ve tried but now I don’t even find your appearance odd.”

As if divining my thoughts, he said, “And this disturbs you.”

“It does.”

He nodded his head again. “Quite understandable. It will pass.” He looked at me. “But you are afraid of that too.”

“Yes,” I said softly.

“Soon you shall meet my sister again.”

I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t.” Now his voice sounded softer. “Have patience, my friend. You are young enough still to rush headlong over the precipice merely to discover what is beyond it.”

“That’s why I came here.”

“I know. But that time has passed. Now life has you by the throat and it will be a struggle to the end.” His eyes flew open, seeming as hot as burning coals. “And who shall be the victor, my friend? When you have the answer to that, you shall understand it all.”

I ate dinner alone that night. I had spent hours searching the castle for Marissa but it was as if she had vanished. Weary at last, I returned to the dining hall and availed myself of vast quantities of the hot food.

I was terrified and I thought that this would act as an inhibitor on my appetite. But, strangely, just the opposite was happening. I ate and ate as if this alone could assuage my fear.

It was Morodor I was terrified of, I knew that. But was it because I feared him or liked him?

Afterward, it was all I could do to drag myself up the staircase. I stumbled down the hallway and into bed without even removing my clothes.

I slept a deep dreamless sleep but when I opened my eyes it was still dark out. I turned over, about to return to sleep, when I heard a sound. I sat bolt upright, the short hairs at the back of my neck stiff and quivering.

Silence.

And out of the silence a weird, thin cry. I got off the bed about to open the door to the hallway when it came again and I turned. It was coming from outside in the blackness of the night.

I threw open the shutters wide and leaned out just as I had on my first night here. This time there was no mist. Stars shone intermittently through the gauzy cloud cover with a fierce cold light, blinking on and off as if they were silently appealing for help.

At first I saw nothing, hearing only the high soughing of the wind through the pines. Then, off to my left, so high up that I mistook it for another cloud, something moved.

I turned my head in that direction and saw a shape a good deal darker than a cloud. It blossomed with sickening speed, blacker even than the night. Wraith or dream, which was it? The noise of the flapping wings, leathery, horned and—what?—scabbed, conjured up in my mind the image of a giant bat.

Precariously, I leaned farther out, saw that it was heading for the open apertures of the cloud room. I hurled myself across the room and out the door, heading up the stairs in giant bounds.

Consequently, I was somewhat out of breath by the time I launched myself through the open doorway to the aerie and there found only Morodor.

He turned quickly from his apparent contemplation of the sky. “You should be asleep,” he said. But something in his tone told me that I had been expected.

“Something woke me.”

“Not a nightmare, I trust.”

“A sound from the night. It was nothing to do with me.”

“It is usually quite still here. What kind of sound?”

“It sounded like a scream… a terrible cry.”

Morodor only stared at me, unblinking, until I was forced to go on.

“I went to the window and looked out. I… saw a shape I could not clearly identify; I heard the awful sound of bat wings.”

“Oh,” Morodor said, “that’s quite impossible. We have none here, I’ve seen to that. Bats are boring, really. As with octopi, I’m afraid their ferocious reputation has been unjustly thrust upon them.”

“Just what the hell did I see then?”

Morodor’s hand lifted, fell, the arch of a great avian wing. “Whatever it was, it brought you up here.”

“Then there was something there!” I said in triumph. “You admit it.”

“I admit,” said Morodor carefully, “that I wanted to see you. The fact is you are here.”

“You and I,” I said. “But what of Marissa? I have been looking for her all evening. I must see her.”

“Do you think it wise to see her now, to… continue what has begun, knowing what you do about me?”

“But she is nothing like you. You two are the shadow and the light.”

Morodor’s gaze was unwavering. “Two sides of the coin, my friend. The same coin.”

I was fed up with his oblique answers. “Perhaps,” I said sharply, “it’s just that you don’t want me to see her. After all, I’m an outsider. I don’t belong at Fuego del Aire. But if that’s the case, let me warn you, I won’t be balked!”

“That’s the spirit!’ His hand clenched into a fist. “Forget all about that which you saw from your bedroom window. It has nothing to do with you.” His tone was mocking.

“A bird,” I said uncertainly. “That’s all it was.”

“My friend,” he said calmly, “there is no bird as large as the one you saw tonight.”

And he reached out for the first time. I felt his chill touch as his long fingers gripped my shoulder with a power that made me wither inside. “Come,” he commanded. “Over here at the windowledge.”

I stood there, dazed with shock as he let go of me and leaped out into the night.

I screamed, reaching out to save him, thinking that, after all, his apparent melancholy signaled a wish to die. Then I saw his great ebon cape ballooning out like a sail, drawn upward by the crosscurrents and, for the first time, I saw what had been hidden beneath its voluminous folds.

I had thought he wore the thing as an affectation, because it was part of the legend. But now I understood. What care had he for legends? He wore the cape for practical reasons.

For now from under it spread a pair of the most extraordinary wings I had ever seen. They were glossy and pitch black, as far away from bat’s wings as you could get. For one thing, they were feathered or at least covered in long silky strips that had the appearance of feathers. For another, they were as supple as a hummingbird’s and quite as beautiful. And made even more so by the thick, muscular tendons by which they were attached to his back. It was like seeing the most beautifully developed torso: hard muscle tone combined with sleek line. And yet. And yet there was more, in the most literal sense, because more musculature was required in order for those massive wings to support the weight of the rest of the body.

Those wings! Sharply angled and hard, delicate as brushstrokes, they beat at the air like heroic engines. They were a magnificent creation, nothing less than a crowning achievement, an evolutionary pinnacle of the Creator.

But out of the wonder came terror and I thought: Marissa! My God! My God! He means to turn her into this. El Amor Brujo.

Without a word, I turned and bolted from the room. Taking the steps three at a time, I returned to the second floor and there found Marissa asleep in her own bed.

My heart beating like a triphammer, I brought a light close to her face. But no. An exhalation hissed from my mouth. There was no change. But still I feared Morodor and what he could do to her.

“Marissa!” I whispered urgently. “Marissa! Wake up!” I shook her but she would not waken. Hurling the light aside, I bent and scooped her up in my arms. Turning, I kicked the door wide and hurried down the stairs. Where I thought to go at that moment remains a mystery to me still. All I know was that I had to get Marissa away from that place.

The way to the disused scullery I knew and this was the route I took. Outside, the wind ruffled my hair but Marissa remained asleep.

I carried her through the field of tiger lilies and the woodbine, down the center aisle of the vast rose garden, to the verge of the labyrinth. Without thinking, I took her inside.

It was dark there. Darker than the night with the high ebon walls, textured like stucco, looming up on every side. I stumbled down the narrow pathways, turning now left or right at random until I knew that I was truly lost. But at least Morodor could not find us and I had with me this place’s only key.

Panting, my muscles aching, I knelt on the grass and set Marissa down beside me. I looked around. All I could hear was the far-off whistle of the wind as if diminished by time. Even the booming surf was beyond hearing now.

I sat back and wiped my brow, staring down at that golden face, so innocent in repose, so shockingly beautiful. I could not allow—

Marissa’s eyes opened and I helped her to sit up.

“What has happened?”

“I was awakened by a strange sound,” I told her. “I saw your brother outside the castle. I thought at first it was a bird but when I went to find out, I saw him.”

She looked at me but said nothing.

I gripped her shoulders. I had begun sweating again. “Marissa,” I said hoarsely. “He was flying.”

Her eyes brightened and she leaned toward me, kissed me hard on the lips. “Then it’s happened! The time is here.”

“Time,” I echoed her stupidly. “Time for what?”

“For the change,” she said as if talking to a slow-witted child.

“Yes,” I said. “I suspected as much. That’s why I’ve brought you into the labyrinth. We’re safe here.”

Her brows furrowed. “Safe? Safe from what?”

“From Morodor,” I said desperately. “He can’t touch you here. Now he cannot change you. You’ll stay like this forever. You’ll never have to look like him.”

For the first time, I saw fright in her eyes. “I don’t understand.” She shivered. “Didn’t he tell you?”

“Tell me what?” I hung on to her. “I ran out of there as soon as I saw him—”

“Oh no!” she cried. “It’s all destroyed now. All destroyed!” She put her face in her hands, weeping bitterly.

“Marissa,” I said softly, holding her close. “Please don’t cry. I can’t bear it. I’ve saved you. Why are you crying?”

She shook me off and stared wide-eyed at me. Even tear-streaked she was exquisitely beautiful. It did not matter that she was filled with pain. No emotion could alter those features. Not even, it seemed, time itself. Only Morodor, her haunted brother.

“He was supposed to tell you. To prepare you,” she said between sobs. “Now it has all gone wrong.”

“Marissa,” I said, stroking her, “don’t you know I love you? I’ve said it and I meant it. Nothing can change that. As soon as we get out of here, we’ll—”

“Tell me, how deep is your love for me?” She was abruptly icily calm.

“How deep can any emotion be? I don’t think it can be measured.”

“Do not be so certain of that,” she whispered, “until you’ve heard me out.” She put her hands up before her body, steepling them as if they were a church’s spire. “It is not Morodor who will work the change. It is you.”

“Me?”

“And it has already begun.”

My head was whirling and I put the flat of my hand against the ground as if to balance myself. “What are you saying?”

“The change comes only when we are in love and that love is returned. When we find a mate. The emotion and its reflection releases some chemical catalyst hidden deep inside our DNA helices which has remained dormant until triggered.”

Her fingers twined and untwined anxiously. “This is not a… state that can be borne alone; it is far too lonely. So this is how it is handled. An imperative of nature.”

“No!” I cried. “No no no! What you’re telling me is impossible. It’s madness!”

“It is life, and life only.”

“Your life! Not mine!”

I stood up, stumbled, but I could not escape the gaze of her lambent eyes. I stared at her in mounting horror. “Liar!” I cried. “Where is Morodor’s mate if this is true?”

“Away,” she said calmly. “Feeding.”

“My God!” I whirled away. “My God!” And slammed into the prickly wall of a hedge.

“Can love hold so much terror for you?” she asked. “You have a responsibility. To yourself as well as to me. Isn’t that what love is?”

But I could no longer think clearly. I only knew that I must get away from them both. The change has already begun, she had said. I did not think that I wanted to see the fruits of that terrible metamorphosis. Not after having known her and loved her like this, all air and sunlight.

Two sides of the coin. Wasn’t that what I had said to Morodor? How he must have laughed at that. Yes. Two sides. But of the same coin.

“Don’t you see?” I heard her voice but could no longer see her. “You have nothing to fear. It is your destiny—our destiny, together.”

Howling, I clawed my way from her, staggering, tripping as I ran through the labyrinth. My only coherent thought was to somehow get to the sea and then to hurl myself into its rocking embrace.

To swim. To swim. And if I were lucky I would at last be thrown up onto the soft sand of some beach far, far away.

But the night had come alive with shadows drenched in my own terror. And, like a mirror, they threw up to me the ugly writhing apparitions from the very bottom of my soul, thrusting them rudely into the light for me to view.

And above me the sound of… .

Wings.

Even through the horrendous tattoo of the storm I can make out that sound. It’s the same sound that reached down into my heavy slumber that night in Fuego del Aire and wrenched me awake. I did not know it then but I know it now.

But I know many things now that I did not then. I have had time to think. To think and to write. Sometimes they are one and the same. Like tonight.

Coming to terms. I have never been able to do that. I have never wanted to do that. My writing kept me fluid, moving in and out as the spirit took me. New York today, Capri the next. The world was my oyster.

But what of me?

The sound is louder now: that high keening whistle like the wind through the pines. It buzzes through my brain like a downed bottle of vintage champagne. I feel lightheaded but more than that. Light-bodied. Because I know. I know.

There is nothing but excitement inside me now. All the fear and the horror I felt in the labyrinth leached away from me. I have had six months to contemplate my destiny. Morodor was right: For each one, it is different. The doorway metamorphoses to suit the nature of the individual.

For me it is love. I denied that when Marissa confronted me with the process of her transmogrification. Such beauty! How could I lose that? I thought. It took me all of this time to understand that it was not her I feared losing but myself. Marissa will always be Marissa.

But what of me? Change is what we fear above all else and I am no different.

Was no different. I have already forgotten the golden creature of Fuego del Aire: she haunts my dreams still but I remember only her inner self. It is somehow like death, this acceptance of life. Perhaps this is where the legends began.

All around me the city sleeps on, safe and secure, wrapped in the arms of the myths of its own creation. Shhh! Don’t bother to disturb it. No one would listen anyway.

The beating of the wings is very loud now, drowning out even the heavy pulsing of the rain. It reverberates in my mind like a heartbeat, dimming sight, taste, touch, smell. It dominates me in a way I thought only my writing could.

My shutters are open wide. I am drenched by the rain, buffeted by the chill wind. I am buoyed up by them both. I tremble at the thought. I love. I love. Those words a river of silver turning my bones hollow.

And now I lift my head to the place where last night the full moon rode calm and clear, a ghostly ideogram written upon the air, telling me that it is time for me to let go of all I know, to plunge inward toward the center of my heart. Six months have passed and it is time. I know. For now the enormous thrumming emanates from that spot. Beat-beat. Beat-beat. Beat-beat.

The heart-sound.

At last. There in the night, I see her face as she comes for me.

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