Phantom
I own houses all over the world, some modest places to relax when I enter a foreign country in search of fresh blood, others so extravagant one would think I was an Arabian princess. My home in Beverly Hills, where we drive after leaving Las Vegas, is one of the most opulent ones. As we enter the front door, Seymour stares in wonder.
"If we stay here," he says, "I have to get new clothes."
"You can have the clothes, but we're not staying. Ray's father knew about this house, so the govern?ment might as well. We're just here to get money, credit cards, clothes, and fresh identification."
Seymour is doubtful. "The government knew you were at the compound. They'll think you died in the blast."
"They'll have to know for sure that I died. They were obsessed with my blood, so they'll research every possible lead concerning me." I step to the window and peer outside. It is the middle of the night. "They may be watching us now."
Seymour shrugs. "Are you going to get me fresh ID?"
I glance at him. "You should go home."
He shakes his head firmly. "I'm not going to leave you. Forget it. I mean, you don't even know how to be human."
I step past him. "We can discuss this later. We don't want to be here a minute more than we have to be."
In the basement of my Beverly Hills home, I pick up the things I mentioned to Seymour. I also take a 9mm Smith & Wesson equipped with a silencer and several rounds of ammunition. My reflexes and vision are not what they used to be, but I believe I am still an excellent shot. All my supplies I load into a large black leather suitcase. I am surprised how much it weighs as I carry it back upstairs. My physical weak?ness is disconcerting.
I don't let Seymour see the gun.
We leave Beverly Hills and drive toward Santa Monica. I let Seymour drive; the speed of the sur?rounding cars disturbs me. It is as if I am a young woman from 3000 B.C. who has been plucked from her slow-paced world and dumped into the dizzyingly fast twentieth century. I tell myself I just need time to get used to it. My euphoria over being human remains, but the anxiety is there as well.
Who was at the door?
I can't imagine. Not even a single possibility comes to mind. But there was something about that voice.
We check into a Sheraton hotel by the beach. My new name is Candice Hall. Seymour is just a friend helping me with my bags. I don't put his name down on the register. I will not stay Candice long. I have other ID that I can change my hair style and color to match, as well as other small features. Yet I feel safe as I close the door of the hotel room behind me. Since Las Vegas, I have kept an eye on the rearview mirror. I don't believe we've been followed. Seymour sets my bag on the floor as I plop down on the bed and sigh.
"I haven't felt this exhausted in a long time," I say.
Seymour sits beside me. "We humans are always tired."
"I am going to enjoy being human. I don't care what you say."
He stares at me in the dimly lit room. "Sita?"
I close my eyes and yawn. "Yes?"
"I am sorry what I said. If this makes you happy, then it makes me happy."
"Thank you."
"I just worry, you know, that there's no going back."
He understands my subtle meaning. "You didn't do this because of what Krishna said to you about vampires?" he asks.
I nod. "I think partly. I don't think Krishna approved of vampires. I think he just allowed me to live out of his deep compassion for all living things."
"Maybe there was another reason."
"Perhaps." I touch his face. "Did I ever tell you how dear you are to me?"
He smiles. "No. You were always too busy threaten?ing to kill me."
I feel a stab of pain. It is in my chest, where a short time ago a stake pierced my heart. For a moment the area is raw with an agonizing burning, as if I am bleeding to death. But it is a brief spasm. I draw in a shuddering breath and speak in a sad voice.
"I always kill the ones I love."
He takes my hand. "That was before. It can be different now that you're not a monster."
I have to laugh, although it is still not easy to take a deep breath. "Is that a line you use to get a girl to go to bed with you?"
He leans closer. "I already have you in bed."
I roll onto my side. "I need to take a shower. We both need to rest."
He draws back, disappointed. "You haven't changed that much."
I stand and fluff up his hair, trying to cheer him up. "But I have. I'm a nineteen-year-old girl again. You just forget what monsters teenage girls can be."
He is suddenly moved. "I never knew the exact age you were when Yaksha changed you."
I pause and think of Rama, my long dead husband, and Lalita, my daughter, cremated fifty centuries ago in a place I was never to know.
"Yes," I say softly. "I was almost twenty when Yaksha came for me." And because I was suspended so long between the ages, I add again, "Almost."
An hour later Seymour is fast asleep beside me on the king-size bed. But despite my physical exhaustion, my mind refuses to shut down. I can't be free of the images of Joel's and Arturo's faces from two nights earlier when I suddenly began to turn to light, to dissolve, to leave them just before the bomb was detonated. At the time I knew I was dead. It was a certainty. Yet one last miracle occurred and I lived on. Perhaps there was a reason.
I climb out of bed and dress. Before leaving the hotel room, I load my pistol and tuck it in my belt, at the back, pulling my sweatshirt over it.
The hotel is located on Ocean Ave. I cross over it, and the Coast Highway that separates me from the ocean. Soon I am walking along the dark and foggy Santa Monica Beach, not the safest place to be in the early morning hours before the sun rises. Yet I walk briskly, heading south, paying little attention to my surroundings. What work it is to make my legs move over the sand! It is as if I walk with weights strapped around my ankles. Sweat drips in my eyes and I pant audibly. But I feel good as well. Finally, after thirty minutes of toil, my mind begins to relax, and I contemplate returning to the hotel and trying to sleep. It is only then that I become aware that two men are following me.
They are fifty yards behind me. In the dark it is hard to distinguish their features, but it is clear they are both Caucasian and well built, maybe thirty years old. They move like two good ol' boys, one dark featured, ugly, the other bright as a bottle of beer foaming in the sunlight. I think these boys have been drinking beer--and stronger--and are feeling un?comfortably horny. I smile to myself as I anticipate the encounter, even imagine what their blood will taste like. Then I remember I am not who I used to be. A wave of fear sweeps through my body, but I stand and wait for them to come to me.
"Hey, girl," the one with dark hair says with a Southern accent. "What are you doing out at this time of night?"
I shrug. "Just out for a walk. What are you guys up to?"
"Why?" I ask.
The dark-haired one moves slightly to my left. He flexes his fists as he speaks. "We just want to know if you're legal."
"I'm old enough to vote," I say. "Not old enough to drink. You boys been drinking tonight?"
They both chuckle. The blond guy moves a step closer. He smells of beer, whiskey. "You might say we've been looking at the wrong end of a few bottles tonight. But don't let that worry you none. We're still fully capable of finishing what we start."
I take a step back. Perhaps it's a mistake that I show fear. "I don't want any trouble," I say. And I mean it, although I feel as if I can still take them. After all, I am still a master of martial arts. A series of swift kicks to their groins, their jaws, should settle any unpleasantness. The dark-haired guy steps off to my left, and wipes at his slobbering mouth with the back of his arm.
"We don't want trouble either," he says. "We're just looking for a good time."
I catch his eye, and really do wish that my stare was still capable of burning into his brain. Seymour was right--my wishes have already settled into a pattern of wanting what I have lost. Yet I do my best to make my voice hard.
"Sometimes a good time can cost you," I say.
"I don't think so," the blond guy says. "You agree, John?"
"She looks like a freebie to me, Ed," John responds.
They've used their names in front of me. That is a bad sign. It means they're either too drunk to know better, or else they plan to kill me. The latter seems a distinct possibility since they clearly intend to rape me. I take another step back, and am tempted to reach for my gun. Yet I don't really want to kill them, especially since there is no need for their blood. Knocking them unconscious is my preference.
Actually, it is my second preference. Surviving is my first.
"If you touch me I'll scream," I warn them.
"No one's going to hear you down here," John says as he reaches out to grab me. "Take her, Ed!"
They go for me simultaneously, John close on my left, Ed three feet in front of me. But it is John who reaches me first. He has pretty good reflexes for a drunk. Before I can twist away, he catches me in a bear hug. Briefly I struggle, and then go limp. When Ed closes within two feet, however, I shove back against John and jump up, lifting both my feet off the ground. Lashing out with the right, I catch Ed in the groin. He shouts in pain and doubles up.
"The bitch got me!" he complains.
"Goddamn it!" John yells in my ear. "You're going to pay for that."
In response I slash backward and up with my left elbow. The blow catches John square on the jaw and his hold on me loosens as he staggers back. In an instant I am free. Since Ed is still bent over, I do him the favor of kicking him in the face, breaking his nose. He drops to his knees, his face dark with blood.
"Help me, John," he moans.
"Help him, John," I mock as John regains his balance and glares at me with death in his eyes. I gesture with my little finger. "Come on, John. Come and get your good-time girl."
John charges like a bull. I leap up and lash out with my left foot in order to kiss his jaw with the heel of my boot. The only trouble is that my timing and balance are all off. I have not risen far enough off the ground. Instead of striking him in the face, I hit him just above the heart, and the blow has not nearly the power I anticipated. John is a big man, over two hundred pounds. He grunts in pain as I strike but he doesn't stop. The momentum of his charge brushes aside my leg and now it is me who is suddenly off balance.
Frantically, I try to bring my left leg back in beneath me before I land but I am too late. With a thud, I topple on my right foot and hit the sand with the right side of my face. John is on me in a second, grabbing me from behind and pinning my arms mid?way up my spine. He's strong. My upper vertebrae feel as if they will explode. With his free hand he smacks me on the back of the head.
"Well let the crabs eat her," Ed agrees as he staggers over, still bleeding profusely from his smashed nose. Behind me, John reaches around for the button on my pants. That is something of a break because if he had just tried to pull my pants down from behind, he would have found the gun. Also, reaching around as he is, I realize, John is slightly off balance.
Digging in with my right knee and pushing off with the tip of my left foot, I shove up as hard as possible. The move catches John by surprise, and I momentar?ily break free and roll in the sand. But my freedom will be measured in fractions of a second if I don't take drastic action. Squirming onto my back, I see both John and Ed staring down at me with stupid grins. They look ten feet tall and as ugly as highway billboards. Together they reach for me.
"Wait!" I cry as I move my right hand slowly under my lower back. "If I lie still and cooperate will you please not hurt me?"
They pause to think about that. "You better lie still, bitch," John says finally. "But you've messed up my friend too much to just walk away from tonight."
"But we might give you a chance to crawl away," Ed says wiping at his bloody face and picking at his broken nose all in the same move.
"I won't leave here crawling," I say in a different tone of voice as my hand finds the butt of the gun. Leaning slightly to the left I whip it out and point it at the good ol' boys. They stare at it, frankly, as if they have never seen a gun before. Then they both take a step back. Maintaining my aim, I take my time getting back to my feet. I speak gently. "That's right boys," I say. "No sudden moves. No screams for help."
John chuckles uneasily. "Hey, you got us, girl. You got us good. We give you that. But you know we didn't mean you no harm. We just drank a little too much and didn't know what we were doing."
"We weren't going to hurt you none," Ed adds, sounding scared, as well he should. Still taking my time, I step within a foot of Ed and place the barrel of the gun between his eyebrows. His eyes get real big, and he wants to turn and run but I stop him with a faint shake of my head. To my left, John stands frozen in wonder and horror.
"You are both liars," I say in a cold voice. "You were not only going to rape me, you were going to kill me. Now I am going to kill you because you deserve to die. But you should be grateful I'm using a gun. A few nights ago I would have used my teeth and nails, and you would have died much slower." I pause. "Say goodbye to John, Ed."
Ed is consumed with murderer's remorse. "Please!" he says, his voice cracking. "I have a wife and kid back home. If I die, who will take care of them?"
"I've got two kids back home," John says passion?ately.
But I am unmoved. Being human has not made me more gullible.
Yet, I usually do not kill when I have the upper hand. I do not kill for pleasure. But I know these two will harm others in the future, and therefore it is better that they die now.
"It is better for your children not to grow up having to imitate trash like you," I say.
Ed's face is awash with tears. "No!" he cries.
"Yes," I say, and shoot him in the head. He falls hard.
I turn the gun on John, who slowly backs away, shaking his head.
"Have mercy," he pleads. "I don't want to die."
"Then you should never have been born," I reply.
I shoot him twice in the face. In the eyes.
Yet that is all I do. The ancient thirst is gone.
I leave their bodies for the crabs.