Jeanne Stein - Blood Drive

There’s a discreet knock on the door. Mom’s secretary is back, and she points at her watch. Mom acknowledges the gesture and tugs at the hem of her suit coat.

“Are you coming to the meeting?” she asks.

I nod. “I’ll stand in back. Before we go, though, can you get me that file on Frey?”

Mom shuffles some papers on her desk and retrieves a thick manila folder. “I pulled the file this morning.” Then, like an afterthought, she reaches into a bookcase behind her desk and pulls out the most recent of a string of yearbooks that fills the bottom shelf. She opens to the faculty section and points. “Here’s a picture of Daniel Frey.” She glances up to meet the gaze of her secretary, standing expectantly by the door. “I’d better go.”

Her tension is palpable. I try to make my smile encouraging. She squeezes my arm in an acknowledgment of the effort and leaves me alone to study the photograph open on the desk.

It’s a studio photograph, a head shot of a man in his late forties with short salt and pepper hair and a smile made perfect by generous lips and straight, white teeth. There is inherent strength in the face and a certain studied sensuality. Daniel Frey projects humor, sensitivity, intelligence and sexuality. A combination that would be irresistible to teenage girls.

Hell, a combination irresistible to females of any age or species. The vibe I’m getting is strong enough to make me run my fingers over the page.

I snap the book shut and replace it on the shelf. I’ll look at the file later. It’s time to see if this guy is as good in person.

The faculty meeting is being held in the theater on campus. Mom is up on the stage, her smooth, pale hair shimmering under the lights. She’s composed, professional and concerned as she fills the staff in on what has happened to two of their students. One a murder victim, and one a possible runaway.

Once again, I’m taken with how beautiful she is and how proud I am to be her daughter. Three months ago I resented my parents and their inability to accept what I chose to do with my life. Now, because I know our time is limited, my feelings have changed.

I shake away the melancholy and let my gaze sweep the room. Daniel Frey is easy to spot. He’s in the middle of the auditorium, surrounded by female faculty members. His expression is serious, engaged, as he listens to my mother. Suddenly he turns in his seat and his eyes go straight to mine.

Hello, Anna. I’ve looked forward to meeting you.

Daniel Frey is in my head.

I never felt it coming. One moment I’m thinking about my mother and the next, Daniel Frey is in my head. The shock knocks me off guard and raises the hair on the back of my neck. I’m exposed and vulnerable. Any kind of weakness, whether it’s surprise or fear, is a dangerous thing. Something you learn very quickly as a vampire.

I shut down my thoughts, but I’m sure not quickly enough to prevent Frey from knowing what I feel. He has turned away from me, looking back toward the front, his own thoughts as impenetrable as a cave on a moonless night.

A second jolt hits me as I realize that only once before have I been locked that completely out of another’s thoughts. We vampires can conceal our thoughts from one another if we choose. But this is different. Daniel Frey is not human. Nor is he a vampire.

He’s like Culebra.

And I don’t know what that is.

When the meeting is over, and the auditorium empties, I remain in the back. Frey stands to allow his fellow teachers to file past him and out the door. He remains standing. He’s dressed in an outfit that looks both designer and expensive-summer-weight wool pinstripe slacks, raspberry-colored sweater with a striped shirt underneath, black leather coat that hits at mid-thigh. He didn’t buy that outfit on a teacher’s salary.

My mother, the last to leave the stage, joins me. Frey follows her. He has not projected a single thought nor has he made an attempt to read mine.

Mom looks at Frey. “Good morning, Daniel.” Then she turns to me. “I’m going back to the office. Are you coming, Anna?”

Frey holds my attention, not with his thoughts, but with his smile. It’s inquisitive, guarded.

I shake my head at Mom. “No, you go on. I have a few questions for Mr. Frey. You're one of Trish Delaney’s teachers, aren’t you?”

Frey’s expression changes, his smile now resonating concern. When he speaks, his voice is velvet-edged and smooth as a rose petal. “I’m glad you’re here to help your mother. I’ll tell you everything I know about Trish, though I’m afraid it isn’t much. Do you want to walk with me to my classroom?”

I nod and Mom leaves us with a surreptitious glance. When Frey’s back is turned, she mouths, “Be careful.”

I mouth back, “I will.”

That’s not necessary, you know.

Frey’s voice. This time it doesn’t come as such a shock, though it reminds me that I need to be more careful in projecting my thoughts.

If that’s possible with a creature like Frey.

I follow him down a sidewalk that leads from the theater to his classrooms. He has a corner room, by the student parking lot. He opens the door and allows me to precede him inside.

The English classrooms I remember from my high school teaching days were painted institutional gray and decorated with portraits of literary figures scattered among bulletin boards bursting with the colorful trivia of high school life. Frey’s classroom is painted pale yellow and there are no bulletin boards, no portraits. Nothing on the walls at all except a small framed sign. A human would have to go close to read it. Since I didn’t have to pretend to be human, I read it from the doorway.

“Life may not be the party we hoped for… but while we’re here we may as well dance.”

I shoot Frey a look with raised eyebrows. Interesting philosophy. Who came up with it?

He shrugs. Don’t know. Somebody sent it to me in an email. I liked the way it sounded.

We move to the front, wending our way through student desks lined up eight to a row and stretching from Frey’s podium in front of the blackboard to the back. I count forty-eight.

Unusually large class size, isn’t it?

He shrugs. Kids seem to want to take my class. And there’s a perpetual teacher shortage. Good teachers leave to pursue other things.

He says the last with a pointed look back at me. Has he picked up the fact that I used to be a teacher from my mother or out of my head?

Frey opens a door beside the blackboard and motions me into a tiny office. It’s not much bigger than a broom closet and outfitted with a desk, chair, and bookcase. He offers me the chair and slips out of his jacket, tossing it onto the bookcase before perching on a corner of the desk. He can’t close the door because his feet are in the way.

For some reason, it’s a comfort that he can’t close that door.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he says.

“Maybe if you told me what you are, I wouldn’t be.”

He tilts his head and looks at me, surprise widening his eyes. You really don’t know? How long have you been a vampire?

Not the first time I’ve been asked that question in that same tone. I didn’t like it much the first time either. I blow out a puff of air. Obviously not long enough. Are you going to answer my question? What the hell are you?

He stands up and when he extends a hand toward me, I jump up too. Sudden fear elicits a reflexive growl of warning that comes from deep inside me and curls my hands into fists. It stops him. He holds the hand palm up in a gesture of conciliation. Slowly, he points to the desk and I realize he was reaching for something on it, not aiming a blow at me.