Feeding the Mouth That Bites Us

L. JAGI LAMPLIGHTER

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The cold winds blew down Fifth Avenue. Hannah shivered but could not find the energy to zip up her coat as she plodded along the sidewalk towards her apartment. It puzzled her that such small actions, such zipping her coat or adjusting her hat, seemed to require such Herculean efforts. It had not used to be that way. Only a year ago, she could recall running across Central Park, laughing as the kite she was trailing behind her became entangled with a bicyclist instead of taking flight. Had it really been only a year ago?… Seemed like an eternity.

Hannah bunked quickly, hoping to moisten her eyes, but they remained uncomfortably dry. Her mouth was dry, as well. She would have liked to believe that the winter wind caused this unpleasant sensation, but it had been with her for months now, even in the most balmy weather of the early fall. Her doctor said it was extreme dehydration, for all the good that information did her. He could not come up with a single explanation of why a recently healthy girl like Hannah would suddenly suffer such symptoms.

She had been tested for every popular disease, chronic, contagious, or sexual, and some less popular ones, as well. She drank huge bottles of Evian and popped iron pills like M&M’s. Yet, neither the dry eyes, nor the nausea, nor the anemia improved. Recently, she had become so tired, so drained, that she was beginning to contemplate telling her doctor the truth. But, how did one explain to a modern Jewish doctor that your boyfriend was a vampire?

Having a vampire for a boyfriend had its good points. The night life was always interesting, for instance. On the other hand, it also had its downside, such as having to put up with him always necking with other girls. Okay, he called it dining. Furthermore, it gave a whole new meaning to the fear that “he just wanted her for her body.”

Some people, she mused, might think her a jerk for allowing someone to suck her blood and then wondering why she felt like shit. Yet, it just did not make sense that the small amount of blood she let Ambroise take could be making her feel so bad. The Red Cross was willing to take a pint every fifty-six days. Hannah gave Ambroise a half a cup every other week, which, over fifty-six days, came to a pint. So, why should she feel so much worse than other donors? It had to be something else that was making her feel so bad; maybe her doctor had missed some .important clue.

As she passed Central Park, she wondered if there was still snow on the branches, but could not find the strength for even so simple a task as raising her head. Frightened by her own weakness, Hannah started to cry, only no tears came. Her body was racked by the force of her sobs, but her eyes remained dry. What was happening to her? When had things become so bad?

Ahead a group of nuns handed out bright yellow flyers. The sight of them in their traditional black robes and white wimples calmed Hannah’s spirits. She examined them with more interest. Each nun wore a phi, in the shape of a gold cross surrounded by a sun, over her left breast. It was not a denominational logo Hannah recognized, but then she knew very little about Christian denominations.

One of the nuns spotted Hannah, where she leaned against the stone wall separating the park from the busy street, her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with self-pity. The nun came forward, smiling kindly. Hannah raised her head and revealed her face, dry-eyed with no trace of tears. The nun’s smile died. She thrust a yellow flyer into Hannah’s hand and muttered something about how help sometimes comes from unexpected places.

==========

Arriving at her apartment, Hannah sat motionlessly in her living room, unable to find the energy to move. Her eyes trailed about the cluttered room. Her cello stood in the corner by the fireplace collecting dust. She had not played it in weeks, maybe months. On her bookshelf, the newest books by three of her favorite authors languished unread. The scarf she had started last summer as a Christmas present for her mother lay on the coffee table, still a pile of knitting needles and yarn. The scarf for Ambroise, however, she had finished. It sat on the mantel wrapped in shiny red paper, awaiting his visit later that week.

It bothered her that they had so little time together. Once every two weeks hardly seemed like enough, and how empty and lonely were the hours that stretched between his visits. Yet, it could not be helped. Apparently foraging for food in this modern age took so much of Ambroise’s time, not to mention holding down a night job to pay the rent, that he could spare only one day out of fourteen for himself. Sometimes he could not even spare a whole night and would come just for an hour, before hurrying off to work. During the long hours she spent alone, too morose and tired to do more than stare blindly at the droning television, she sometimes dreamed that a time would come when they moved in together. Then, she could see him every night and guard him during the day while he slept. Sometimes, she even imagined that she might bring home guests, so that he would not need to go out to forage. Though, she often wondered if such dreams were disloyal to the friends and coworkers she pictured in the role of the guests.

She would have felt more comfortable if Ambroise had been more forthcoming about exactly what he did with the rest of his time. She understood his desire to shield her from the more gruesome aspects of his life. Yet, secretly she felt he should have recognized that she was enough of a modern woman to face the graphic truth without flinching… or at least she had been before her malaise began. And why did he shy away from certain restaurants or areas of town? She understood why he would not go to the Full Moon Cafe—the place was wall-to-wall mirrors. But, what did he have against the Golden Bull or Formicidae’s?

Yet, when he was with her, all her doubts and fears evaporated. He was so handsome and carefree, with his auburn curls and porcelain skin. When they were alone together, he whispered such sweet caressing words. She recalled his strong arms, his musky smell, his infectious laugh. Sinking deeper into the couch, she contemplated the feel of his hands pinning her down as he bent his head to kiss her bare stomach. Hannah sighed. No other man made her feel so good. How empty her life would be without him.

Ambroise.

She wet her dry lips.

Ambroise.

Half an hour later, she found the strength to make it to the kitchen and open a can of soup. As she sat waiting for the soup to warm, she noticed the yellow flyer lying facedown on the kitchen table. She pushed lackadaisically at it until it flipped over and exposed its print, wondering vaguely what it might be. Most likely, it was an ad for a charity or a church. Hannah did not go to temple very often, but she had no interest in become a Christian. Still, she felt a mild curiosity as to what brand of poison the nuns had been pushing.

The flyer read,

Do you suffer from the following symptoms?

Dry eyes

Bouts of depression

Exhaustion

Anemia

Back or stomach pains

Numbness

Troubling Dreams

If so, there is hope! Come to the Order of Saint George’s Clinic

At the bottom was an address in Westchester, a phone number, and an e-mail address.

Hannah pushed back her long black hair, which had always been unruly but which was even worse now that she seldom washed it, and read the flyer again. It listed her symptoms exactly. Not one at a time, as the medical books did, but all together—as if their presence was significant in conjunction with each other! If she suffered from symptoms others suffered as well, then her condition could not have anything to do with Ambroise after all! With a feeling of buoyancy she had not felt in months, Hannah rose and made toast to go with her soup.

==========

It took her three days to get up the energy to actually visit the clinic. The only reason she finally went was that Ambroise was coming the next day. Hannah lived in fear that her lethargy might become so overwhelming that she would be unable to enjoy their time together. Ambroise’s biweekly visits were the high point of her otherwise dreary life. So far, she had managed to perk up whenever he arrived. As the effort it took to stir herself to action grew, however, she began to fear that even his presence would soon fail to cheer her. If she was no longer fun to be with, would Ambroise stick around?

The clinic was situated in an old church that was connected by a hall of black glass to a stone rectory. Since the flyer had boasted of night hours, Hannah had considered waiting for Ambroise and asking him to take her. Now she was glad she had not. Ambroise would have been out of there already. He hated walking on holy ground.

Tentatively, she pushed open the heavy oak door and found herself in a mirrored corridor. Compounded reflection of the hall lamps in the many mirrors produced a dazzling glare of lights. Hannah hurried through the hallway and escaped with relief into the large sunny waiting room beyond.

The soft noise of rushing water greeted her. A tall three-tiered marble fountain stood in the center of the room. As Hannah entered, a nurse in white nun’s robes was filling a pitcher from the fountain waters, which she then poured into a silver samovar that sat on its rolling stand near an inner door. The blue flames heating the samovar were reflected against the silver wallpaper dancing among its gold foil flowers. Hannah, still cold from the street, found a seat near the samovar. However, the lure of the reflected flames proved false. They offered no warmth.

The spicy hot tea and the braided herbs hung about the windows gave the clinic a very pleasant aroma. A small garden, which circled one side of the waiting room, provided additional pungent scents. Mint and Saint-John’s-wort grew in the soft dark earth, along with other herbs Hannah did not recognize. Every few feet, a tall wooden cross rose above the greenery.

That the clinic was run by a Christian order was obvious. In addition to crosses in the garden, a golden crucifix topped the fountain, and silver crosses hung on the walls. Crosses also marked the burning candles and the leather golf bags containing croquet sets that sat in every corner. Hannah thought of the simplicity of her synagogue and felt out of place. She wondered bleakly if the nuns would expect her to convert.

As the chill of the outside air left her, Hannah examined the other prospective patients. They sat on the benches sipping tea from delicate china cups or filling out paperwork. Their faces were uniformly drawn and exhausted. Hannah shivered. What ailment did this clinic treat? Did she have it, too? If so, would she end up as bad off as that sunken-eyed man sitting by the hat rack?

In the shiny surface of the wallpaper Hannah could see her reflection. Was that her? So pale and drawn, with such a mop of unkempt hair? What had become of the pretty Jewish American Princess she had been such a short time ago? Hannah thought of her adoring father seeing her like this, so wan, with dark circles under her eyes, and nearly began to cry.

A nun brought Hannah a questionnaire, which she proceeded to fill out immediately. Yes, her eyes and mouth were often dry. Yes, she often found herself crying. Yes, she often suffered from depressing thoughts and troubling dreams. No, she did not use recreational drugs. No, she did not make regular use of opiates or Pepto-Bismol.

The questions comforted her, despite her fear that she might turn out to have some incurable disease. It was reassuring to know that others experienced what she experienced. Especially as, if these symptoms were common to some ailment, it meant her problems had nothing to do with Ambroise.

The next question gave her pause, and her hand stole unconsciously to her neck. “Have you ever noticed a lump or bug bite about the size of quarter? If so, were there two such lumps very close together? Did any numbness or tingling you might have experienced seem to originate from the location of the lumps?”

Hannah glanced around surreptitiously. Previously innocent aspects of the decorum began to take on ominous implications, such as the herbs which she now recognized as braids of garlic, or the polished wood spikes and flat-headed mallets she had taken for croquet sets. Her eyes flew quickly over the walls, but found none of the medical posters usually found in free health clinics. If the Order of Saint George helped the sufferers of an accepted disease, why didn’t the name of the illness appear on any of the wall hangings or literature?

==========

Upon finishing her questionnaire, Hannah was led into a private counseling room. It was small and comfortable, with firm leather seats and a wide window looking out on the church grounds. A TV and VCR on a wheeled cart sat in one corner, next to a small refrigerator. On the other side, near the window, was a large oak desk. Behind the desk sat a young man in black with a head of blond curls. He was so youthful that it was not until Hannah took in his calm beneficent expression that she recognized him for a priest. “Welcome. Come, sit down. I’m Father Joseph,” he said kindly, rising to help her with her chair. Hannah handed him her finished questionnaire, then sat mutely as Father Joseph read it over.

“You wrote here that you have found lumps such as the ones described.” He glanced quickly down at the questionnaire. “… Hannah. Do you have any now?”

Hannah wanted to lie, but felt obscurely uncomfortable since he was a priest. She really did not know much about priests, except for what appeared in movies. But in movies, people were always confessing their innermost thoughts to them. Reluctantly, she nodded.

“Can you show me?”

Trembling, Hannah stood and unbuttoned the top of her shirt, exposing the bites on her neck. The priest glanced briefly at her throat and nodded. Touching an intercom button on his phone, he called for a nurse. A young nurse in white with a white wimple came bustling in, carrying a silver pitcher, much like the one Hannah had seen when she first arrived. Father Joseph gestured towards Hannah, commanding.

“Hannah, show the nurse.”

Hannah did so. The bites were nearly two weeks old and had faded to bruised lumps faintly resembling old mosquito bites. The nurse took a swab of cotton from the pocket of her white smock and dipped it into the pitcher.

“Holy water. From the fountain,” the nurse explained brightly. Swabbing the cotton over Hannah’s neck, she added, “Hold still—this may sting a bit.”

The cool water felt good against the numbness in her shoulder. Then, the burning began. Hannah screamed as molten lead ran through her neck and down her veins. The searing pain rapidly approached her heart. She was going to die, Hannah thought, trying to push the nurse’s hand away. Behind her, the priest moved deftly to catch her arms, holding her immobile. As the pain entered her heart, like the heat of a blowtorch, she prayed that her death might be quick.

Then, just as quickly, the pain was gone, and she felt… better. The priest released her, and she stood a moment, rotating her shoulder and .lifting her arm. The numbness that had troubled her for months was gone. As the priest returned to his seat, she gave him a shaky smile.

“Thanks… I guess.”

The nurse had left. She returned now with a cup of tea. From the pleasant smell, Hannah recognized it as the tea from the samovar. She recalled that it, too, had been made with fountain water.

“I-is it going to burn?” she asked.

The nurse smiled and shook her head. “No, that’s all over now, ma’am.” She handed Hannah a bottle of some kind of vitamins. “You’ll be wanting to take one of these every day for a month. They’ll have you feeling better in no time.”

“Will… will I get better?” Hannah asked. She felt a sudden stab of hope.

“Most certainly.” The priest gave her a reassuring smile.

Hannah sat down, and the nurse left the room. Carefully at first, she sipped her tea, but it tasted wonderful and produced no strange side affects. Examining the vitamins, she read the ingredients: Iron, garlic extract, mandrake root, pennyroyal, wolfsbane, belladonna. And underneath, MADE WITH HOLY WATER. Hannah shrugged and put the bottle in her purse. She did not believe that blessing water made it holy, of course. But, hey, if it worked, why fight it? After all, this was the first time she had been able to breathe properly in months!

The priest leaned forward. “From what you say here, I don’t believe it’s a serious case. However, I still have some questions I must ask you. It is very important that you answer as best you can. Your own health and the health of others depends on your honesty. Please tell me everything you remember about how you received these marks.”

Hannah raised her teacup to hide her blush. “Like what?”

“Do you know what is causing them?”

After a pause, she nodded.

“Can you tell me who it is? A name? A description? An address?”

Hannah hesitated, afraid. Eventually, she mumbled. “If I tell you, what will you do?”

“Come, I’ll show you.”

He took her through the old church into the dark glass hallway that connected the church to the rectory. The windows were black, making the corridor dark and gloomy. When they had gone about halfway down the corridor, Father Joseph touched a switch on the wall. Instantly, the glass cleared. The light of day streamed through the windows, and Hannah felt the sun’s soothing warmth touch her face.

“This is all we’ll do,” Father Joseph said. His blue eyes sparkling kindly. “It’s not so bad, is it?”

At first, Hannah returned his smile cheerfully. Then, understanding came and she blurted out. “But won’t the sunlight kill him?”

The sparkle in Father Joseph’s eyes died. “So, you do know.”

==========

Back in the counseling room, the priest and Hannah sipped their tea in momentary silence.

“So, you know about vampires,” Hannah said finally, breaking the silence. It felt good to have someone she could discuss the subject with, even if the priest was technically a member of “the enemy.”

“Basically, the Order of Saint George runs… what?”

“A vampire victim crisis center,” Father Joseph said with a flicker of amusement.

“There are really so many vampire victims?” asked Hannah.

“The number grows every day,” replied Father Joseph. He put his teacup down. “You may have heard of the increased incidents of clinical depression over the last decade or so? Most people blame our modern lifestyle, but much of this is actually caused by vampires. Most of the victims are not .like you, Hannah. They don’t know. They are hypnotized at the time of feeding and are not aware of how they received the marks. Usually, as their condition grows worse, they are treated by psychiatrists, who give them Prozac or Paxil and send them on their way.”

“What causes the depression? The lack of blood?”

“The toxin the vampire imparts in his victim in order to draw blood painlessly. It is similar to the poison used by mosquitoes. Only, a vampire deposits a great deal more into the nervous system than the average mosquito.”

“I don’t understand. Are we talking about a real chemical? Something science can study?” asked Hannah, who had expected some mystical mumbo-jumbo explanation.

“Certainly. When we have patients who are less sure of the cause of their troubles, we often draw blood and test for traces of this toxin. It breaks down slowly in the human body. Traces can be found in the bloodstream for two to three weeks after the initial bite.”

“So, after three weeks, a person would be fine?” asked Hannah.

“Theoretically. In reality, it depends on the length of exposure. The toxin works by overstimulating the pleasure receptors in the brain, which is why their victims find vampires so enticing. Over time, traces of the toxin build up on these receptors, damaging them and causing a chemical depression. Eventually, if left unchecked, the receptors burn out all together. We have a few such patients in our in-house care program back in the rectory.”

Hannah shivered, inwardly seething at Ambroise for causing her such misery. But, then, he probably had no idea what he was doing. After all, vampires could hardly be expected to visit such crisis centers on fact-finding missions. Besides, she had done everything possible to hide her condition from him. She would not hold her love responsible, she decided. He could not help what he was.

“Now, I must ask you again. Can you give us anything to go on?” asked Father Joseph, and he pushed a card across the table which had places for Vampire’s Name and Address.

Hannah thought of the hall and the sunlight. She tried to imagine Ambroise dead, his beautiful face marred or his perfect breast pierced. The image upset her so she nearly started crying in front of the priest. Silently, she vowed that she would rather die herself than let such a thing happen to Ambroise.

“But, Am—he hasn’t done anything wrong! I consented,” she cried hastily.

Father Joseph looked at his hands and sighed. His face looked careworn and sad, as if he had been through this scene a hundred times before. Hannah wondered why she had thought he was so young.

“I did not want to have to show you this. I spare all those who I can,” he said, rising and moving to put a videotape in the VCR. “You will excuse me if I don’t stay and watch it again myself. Watch the whole thing—to the end. Just press the intercom button when you’re done.”

The videotape showed a real vampire initiation. The hidden camera gave the scene an odd warped look, but she could still see the vampires converging on the initiate like vultures on roadkill. The initiate, now pale and trembling, then approached an old man, who had been bound to a stake and gagged. The old man wept as he awaited his fate. Hannah felt a stab of envy at his watery tears. Then, the initiate slit the old man’s throat with a ceremonial knife and began sucking up mouthfuls of his spurting blood.

“All vampires are murderers,” explained the announcer. “Their power to sustain their existence beyond the grave is granted to them by an unholy power. This power will accept only initiates who have proved their loyalty by sullying their soul with the murder of an innocent. All vampires have murdered before and will most likely murder again.”

Hannah dismissed some of the explanation as Christian claptrap. Yet, she did believe that what she was seeing was real. The old man’s death was not like any special effect she had ever seen. For one thing, there was much more blood than they showed in the movies. Hannah had never seen a real person die before, and the experience rattled her. She tried to console herself with the thought that the sacrificial victim was very old and probably would have died soon anyway, but she could not quite believe it. Her dear father, who adored her so faithfully, was not much younger than that man. The thought of her father perishing so ignominiously filled her with fury.

But, if she ratted on Ambroise, wouldn’t that make her a murderer, too?

Unexpectedly, she remembered the night she and Ambroise broke into the Central Park Zoo and toured the menagerie together. It was never open during the hours they saw each other. She remembered the raucous monkeys and the sleeping lions. She remembered the cotton candy machine Ambroise had found. How he had laughed when she got the sticky stuff all over her nose. How he had bent his head to lick it off. No. She could not kill him. She loved him.

And yet… much as she loved him, she wanted to play the cello again and to enjoy a good book. She wanted to be able to take a shower or call her mother without weeping at the terrible effort it took. She wanted to live her life.

Shakily, Hannah acknowledged that her relationship with Ambroise must end. She would go home and explain to him the harm he was causing her. She would explain that under the circumstance it would be wrong for them to continue to see each other. She imagined herself, an old lady, unmarried and alone, still pining in her heart for her one true love. Perhaps, they would meet on the street—her old and withered, him still young. Perhaps they would exchanged a brief smile or a fond word. The thought made her cry, but no tears flowed. She hid her head and left the priest to face her shaking shoulders.

“I… I can’t help you,” she said finally.

“Hannah…”

“I love him. I would rather die myself than be party to his murder,” Hannah declared valiantly.

The priest frowned. “What about his other victims?”

If she left Ambroise, would it push him into the arms of other women? An image came to her of Ambroise embracing various young women of her acquaintance, whispering to them. She pushed it angrily from her thoughts. No, no one who said the wonderful things Ambroise said would ever hurt her as her no-good, son-of-a-gun ex-fiance had. Ambroise was a one-woman man, just as she was a one-man woman. He might feed off other women to stave his incurable hunger, but he would never love them as he loved her.

Now, if someone had offered to kill Eddie, her two-timing ex, that might have been a different matter!

“I feel sorry for his other victims,” Hannah began, “but—”

“But not sorry enough.” Father Joseph cut her off. He thrust the card at her again. “Here, carry this. Come. There is someone I would like you to meet.”

Father Joseph led her through the glass hallway to the rectory, where patients with more serious aliments were treated. The rectory, or the infirmary, as the priest called it, was a long chamber with thick white walls and tall arched windows. Beds extended from the walls, each bed draped about the head with soft white fabric, forming a short canopy. The room was airy and bright, but smelled heavily of disinfectant.

From each canopied cot, pallid, drawn, and tired faces stared back at Hannah from behind the thick green goggles that kept their eyes moist. Many were on IVs. The nun who had swabbed Hannah’s shoulder sat beside one of the patients, wetting his lips with a pink mouth sponge-stick. She smiled at Hannah and the priest as they passed.

From the last bed on the left, a shrunken wrinkled woman in a white hospital gown watched the newcomers with a malevolent glare. Hannah recoiled, shocked by the woman’s horribly withered appearance.

The shrunken woman’s dry eyes fixed on Hannah. Her voice was a rasp of scorn. “How old do you think I am?”

“Me? I—I don’t know,” Hannah stuttered. The woman must be at least in her nineties. Hannah prayed she would never get that old! She decided to flatter the old hag and guess young. “… seventy-six?”

The deadened eyes watched her, unblinking. “I am thirty-eight … Surprised you, didn’t I?”

Hannah turned to Father Joseph and whispered conspiratorially.“How old is she really?”

The young priest’s face was grave. “Clarissa is thirty-eight, my child. She is one of our most difficult cases.”

The shrunken woman spoke, her voice scornful. “I thought myself so fancy with my vampire lover. I looked down on my friends because I was going to live forever. After all, he loved me sooo much. He so often said so.” She scowled angrily. “Where in Anne Rice does it say that you have to murder someone to become a vampire? I… I couldn’t do it.” Her eyes drifted, as if her thoughts moved far away.

“Time for your transfusion, ma’am,” said a pretty nun, coming up beside Clarissa. The woman scowled.

Father Joseph inclined his head towards Hannah and said quietly, “Clarissa was seduced into participating in a vampire initiation. However, when it came time to kill the victim, she refused. She can no longer produce her own blood, but at least her soul is her own.”

“That’s small comfort when the pains start,” the shrunken patient rasped moodily, wincing as the nurse turned her to prepare for her transfusion. “Sometimes, when the pain is very bad at night, I curse myself for not having gone through with it. I could have been deathless. I could have been immortal… but, then I wake to the sunlight and know I’ve been fooling myself. I could never have withstood that life. Most vampires fade away within the first five years. Did you know that? It’s only the rare initiate who actually grows hardened enough to survive that depraved life.”

Her eyes focused on Hannah and she added, “None of them would survive if we did not make it easy for them. We criticize the stupidity of dogs who bite the hand that feeds them. But, how much stupider we women are when we continue to feed the mouth that bites us.”

Hannah shifted uncomfortably, tugging at her unruly hair.

Father Joseph said gently. “Hannah has not yet decided whether or not to help us.”

“So you brought her back here to show her the likes of me, hoping to shock her into feeling pity for her lover’s other victims?” Clarissa laughed, a short uncomfortable sound. “Priests! They know shit about women. But, don’t worry, Father Joe. I’ll fix things for you.”

She fixed her baleful gaze on Hannah. “Let me ask you a question, honey. When you first met lover boy, did you see him every day?”

“Yes.”

“But now, you see him once every two weeks, right?”

“… Yes.”

“Even then, there are places or parts of town where he doesn’t want to be seen with you. Am I right?”

Hannah nodded reluctantly. Her heart skipped a beat. It made sense that the clinic had been able to identify a pattern to her symptoms. But, how could someone else know the pattern of Ambroise’s behavior?

“You want know why, sweetheart? I bet you don’t. But I’m going to tell you, nonetheless. Because the damn bloodsuckers have a feeding cycle. They can’t sip from one ‘cup’ more than once every two weeks. Otherwise, they weaken their victims beyond their usefulness. The average fanghead has between twelve and twenty-five victims, and that’s not counting their constant supply of one-time supplements. And, since most of their victims experience the toxic-induced euphoria as sexual pleasure, they usually oblige them.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Oh, yes, you do! Your lover has between twelve and twenty other squeezes he visits the other nights when he’s not with you. He has places he goes with you and places he avoids, because that’s where he takes his other girls. He’s got it all worked out. They all do. Face it, sweetie. To him, you’re just a glorified ham sandwich.”

“I don’t believe it! Ambroise is different!” Hannah said stoutly.

“Ambroise? What, him again?” Clarissa raised a faint scornful eyebrow. “Didn’t we have two other girls babbling about Ambroise just this week?” When Father Joseph nodded, she snorted. “Seems this Ambroise is quite the ladies’ man. If I remember correctly, one of them vowed to die before anyone laid a hand on her true love.”

“You mean, he’s cheating on me?”

“My, how sharp you are.” Clarissa’s thin lips settled into a malicious grin.

“That bastard!”

Hannah felt as if she had been punched in the solar plexus. She allowed Father Joseph to help her to a chair, where she sat rocking back and forth, as a thousand pleasant memories shattered like tempered glass. After all she had done for him! All she had given up. Her very life’s blood! And all the time, Ambroise had been using her like so much cotton candy!

Father Joseph offered her his pen. Hannah stared at it blankly. Then, snatching it, she wrote out the card, describing exactly where Ambroise would be the following evening, and thrust it at the priest, who accepted it gravely. Wiping an honest-to-goodness wet tear from her cheek, she sniffed and said, “Sunlight’s too good for him. Can’t they use a stake?”