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it scream.
    “This
is you?” he said, pointing up, indicating the music. I only
managed to nod.
    He
smiled, and it was like a brilliant full moon coming out from behind
the clouds. “How perfectly delightful.” He took my hand,
held it to his lips, and kissed it.
    I
was already his.

    He
led me away from the party. I don’t remember what he’d
said, what gesture he’d made, but he led me all the same.
    I
hope I had the presence of mind to be polite enough to say good night
to Eva. I really can’t remember. But I hope I did. I never
saw her again.
    He
took me down, buried and descending in the confining elevator, the
three of us pressed together. He took me down and out into the
afterlife of the brightly lit streets, a haze of rain around each
streetlight like a galaxy, the whole street a universe spread out
like a banquet.
    A
long car, just modest enough not to be a limousine, waited for him,
valet driver surrendering the keys to his small companion. The little
man opened the doors for us and settled himself in the driver’s
seat. It was easy to imagine that he wasn’t even there, that
the car moved by magic, and that I was alone with my rescuer.
    My
ghostwhite angel held me in his eyes again, sitting across from me as
the car pulled into the street.
    “So.”
He said.
    I
held my breath, waited, nothing but attention.
    “Eva
tells me you wanted to meet a vampire.”
    I
nodded.
    “There
are only two reasons,” he said, his voice liquid, flooding the
space between us, “that I can imagine for wanting to meet a
vampire.
    “The
first is that you want to die.”
    I
didn’t answer, and my silence was my answer. He sat forward,
anticipating, listening to my silence, then settled back in his seat
and nodded.
    “The
second reason,” he said, “is that you don’t want to die.”
    “Not
ever,” I said, and my voice was harsh against the musical sound
of his voice. Yours was always the voice, Gabe; you were the one who
sang. I could never talk without a guitar. My words were two short
sharp scratches, scarring the air. Not ever.
    “You
want to be a vampire. You want to live forever.”
    I
let out the breath I’d been holding. I nodded again.
    “Tell
me.”
    “I
— yes.” I couldn’t look at him; I couldn’t
stand to look away. “Yes, I want to be a vampire.”
    His
turn to nod. “I can arrange that.” He reached inside his
jacket — he was dressed just as he should be, just as I’d
pictured it, all black velvet and white silk — and pulled out a
small, elaborately engraved metal case. Too small for cigarettes.
Business cards?
    He
opened it, held it out to me. A single razor blade immaculate on a
bed of rose petals.
    “Bleed
for me,” he said softly.
    I
took it, forcing my hands not to tremble. Just like stage fright,
just like making myself hold the guitar, I made myself take the blade
and hold it.
    It
was the first time I’d held a razor blade in years, since
before I’d first met you. Since before I knew the world could
ever hold anything as dark and magical as you and I didn’t want
the world anymore. Back when a razor blade had been a constant
friend, my ticket out of here; nights spent opening my wrists, first
across the wrist and then, when I’d learned better after having
been rescued too many times, down the wrist, trying to open up a
whole vein instead of just slashing across it. I’d never
managed to bleed enough to die, not then. But the attempts had left
me with cruciform scars, a perfect cross on each forearm.
    I
held the blade above one vivid white old scar and with one quick
motion made it into a wound again.
    “Good.
That’s good. You didn’t hesitate.”
    The
fresh wound stung and burned and his words were like a salve.
    “I
imagine,” he said, “that you have many questions.
Questions about what it’s like. To be a vampire. About what’s
involved in becoming one.”
    “Yes,”
I said, watching the first drop of blood hit the floor of the car.
The world was a blur