Heather Terrell - Eternity (v5)

I didn’t want to be presumptuous and take the seat opposite his desk, so I stood there until invited. He made some grumbling noises as he stepped over the piles of papers littering the floor to get to his desk chair. Once he settled in, he just stared at me with his surprisingly bright and clear brown eyes.

“What are you waiting for?” He gestured to the guest chair.

I hustled over to the battered wooden chair and sat down. I had planned on introducing myself as a Harvard student writing for the daily newspaper— The Harvard Crimson —that wanted to conduct an interview of him. I’d even bought and put on a Harvard sweatshirt, and carried a copy of the Crimson on top of my notebook. But the professor’s manner was so gruff and odd, I hesitated. Much to the professor’s irritation.

He stuck out his open hand in my direction. “Come on, miss. Have you got it or not?”

“Got what?”

“Your seminar paper. Today’s office hours are reserved exclusively for my Eastern European Myths and Legends seminar students.”

He saw my blank stare and squinted at me. “You are in my seminar, are you not?”

“No, I’m not. I am actual y a—”

He cut me off. “Then I must ask you to leave. You may come back during my regular office hours on Friday.”

“I’m afraid I real y can’t wait until Friday, Professor McMaster.”

“I’m afraid you do not have a choice, Miss—”

“Faneuil.”

“Come along, Miss Faneuil. There are no imminent deadlines in my other two courses, so you wil have to wait until Friday. The seminar students have priority.”

I launched into my little plan. I thought I’d play on his vanity with The Harvard Crimson interview—everybody liked to talk about themselves—and then sneak in my questions. That way, I wouldn’t scare him off. I just kept my fingers crossed that he wouldn’t ask for any Crimson identification.

“I promise I won’t take up too much of your time, Professor McMaster. I’m a writer with The Harvard Crimson , and we would like to do an interview of you for our magazine section. I would’ve set up an appointment with your secretary, but we have an unexpected opening today and we would love to fil it with an interview of you.” I looked down at my notepad as if consulting some notes. “My staff told me that we’ve never done a formal interview of you, and we’d like to rectify that situation.”

The professor’s face softened. I could tel that he real y didn’t want to do an interview, but felt obliged. He said, “My apologies, Miss Faneuil.”

“I’m the one who should apologize, Professor McMaster. As I said, I real y should have made an appointment with your secretary. Especial y since this seems like a real y busy time.”

“It is indeed. I am ful y committed to student appointments through the afternoon. However, I can offer you fifteen minutes right now, before the first student starts clamoring for his meeting.”

“I real y appreciate it, Professor.” I looked back down at my notepad of “interview” questions, and said, “Let’s not waste a minute.”

Quickly, I asked him a series of basic questions about his background and areas of expertise. He was responsive enough, although he was visibly uncomfortable. His discomfort increased when I started on the questions I real y wanted to know about—the characteristics of vampires. And what—if anything—he knew about other supernatural creatures.

He interrupted me. “Miss Faneuil, I informed you that I could spare fifteen minutes. I believe that I kept to my promise. I cannot offer you a moment more.”

The professor stood up abruptly and came around to my side of the desk, presumably to escort me back to the locked door. As he took me by the hand to lead me out of his office, I got a flash from his touch. It was mild, but astonishing in the breadth and potency of its information. And not surprising in its contents given that we’d just been talking about his upbringing. I didn’t want to use what I’d learned to get his attention—that seemed too fal en, for my purposes. But I had no choice.

“I’m afraid that I’m going to have to insist on a few more minutes . . . Professor Laszlof.”

Chapter Thirty-six

The professor recoiled from my touch, as if I’d burned him. “What did you cal me?”

“Istvan Laszlof. That was your given name, wasn’t it?”

He didn’t speak. Maybe he couldn’t. It had probably been fifty years since anyone had cal ed him by his birth name.

When I touched him, I learned that he had been born in Eastern Europe in the nineteen thirties, as Istvan Laszlof. He came to this country with excel ent credentials as a historian and spoke near-perfect English—but no one would admit him into their doctoral program at that time. They’d rather see a former adherent of Communism mopping the floors of their hal owed hal s. Not one to be cowed and so thirsty for knowledge that nothing could stop him, Istvan bought himself a new identity and reapplied to al the top programs as Raymond McMaster. If the truth about his falsification became known, Professor McMaster’s career would be destroyed.

“Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It most certainly does.” His natural y unpleasant tone was getting nasty.

“Professor, I have no intention of sharing your secret with anyone else. I just want a few more minutes of your time.”

“Miss Faneuil, if you do not tel me where you learned this information, I wil not give you the time you want.”

Now I was getting mad. I just wanted to talk to him—why did it require tel ing him al my secrets? But what were my options? “You just told me about Istvan Laszlof.”

“I don’t understand.”

I spoke slowly, wanting to soften my next statement as much as possible. “I learned about your origins as Istvan Laszlof by touching you just now.

Professor McMaster, I’m not like other people. I can see and do things that would probably shock you. I didn’t tel you about Istvan Laszlof to scare you—as I have no intention of tel ing anyone else—but because it seemed the only way to get a little more of your time.”

Trembling, he walked back behind his desk and sat down. “That’s real y al you want? Just to talk?” He looked very skeptical.

“Yes, that’s real y al I want. I’m not here not to frighten you; I’m here for your help.”

In an effort to reassemble the shattered pieces of Professor McMaster and store away Istvan Laszlof, he smoothed his wild hair and straightened his shirt before speaking. After taking a deep, steadying breath, he gestured that I should take a seat and said, “I’d be happy to assist you, then, Miss Faneuil. Though, I must confess, I do not know very much about psychics. Vampires are my area of expertise.”

“Oh, Professor McMaster, I’m not a psychic.”

“What are you, Miss Faneuil?”

“I am hoping you can tel me what I am.”

He appeared relieved at my request. “I am little used to classifying people.”

I wasn’t about to relinquish my hope so readily. “Yes, but you have some familiarity with creatures that aren’t human?”

“I do,” he admitted reluctantly.

“And you believe in the existence of such beings? Including vampires?”

“Yes. I have had the acquaintance of a few beings that I would consider to be actual vampires. Hence, the necessity for the locks on my office door; one can enter and exit my office only by my own hand. Evil must be kept at bay as best it can.”

“I understand,” I said, although I knew that no lock could keep someone like Ezekiel “at bay.”

He quickly added, “But, in most cases, the individuals who have made such claims are only humans whose perceived differences can be explained by a thorough understanding of historical and cultural trends.” He had slipped into academic-speak.