Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 5

We climb back into the truck and she slams it in gear. I'm certain she doesn't drive her new Camaro this roughly, but I'm too preoccupied to scold her.

"Did you see that?" I ask.

"What?"

"Dr. Webb."

"Yeah, he's hot. Most ER docs are total geeks. Nothing like TV."

"He cut through that boy's chest like apple pudding. I haven't seen that in a long time. You could work your entire career, Dana, and never see that."

"If I flunk out of school, I sure won't see it then. Though I guess I could be a paramedic like you." She gives me an appraising glance, then grimaces. "Oh, hell no. Navy is not my color, nor is your paycheck an appropriate amount to live on. This job is temporary."

"I don't understand why you're so worried about an English class. Can't you retake it if you don't pass?"

"It will kill my GPA and Daddy will cut me off. This time, he's serious. I can feel it. I have too many expenses to live un-supplemented. I require patronage. Plus, I refuse to take a class with Professor Hardcastle again. If I have to read another line of Romantic poetry ever again, I'll puke."

"I love the Romantics," I muse.

"Of course you do. You love all those pale sensitive people who die tragically young. Shelley, Polidori, Byron—God, they were all so weak. Santos survived ten tours of combat and lived. All these guys did was write and not one of them made it past their thirties!"

"Their words were strong. They endured."

"What good are words when you're dead?"

She steps on the accelerator and speeds through town, toward the Art Deco district where my favorite bookstore of all time happens to reside. Dana parks before a fire hydrant, I suspect to irritate her ex, firefighter Tom, and walks into the store. I hesitate.

I've never been inside. Instead, I do my browsing of their titles online. I've been afraid to venture in, lest I enjoy it too much and want to linger and then return. When I'm not running calls in the dark, I keep fiercely to myself. This is how I live: in exile from humanity. Attachment means discovery and discovery all too often leads to death.

Despite our strength, there are so many ways to die. Murder. Starvation. Sunshine. It takes prudence and forethought to navigate our world, no doubt the reason so few of my kind have survived. Young Night Walkers, beset by hunger and fraught with boldness, feel immortal. Enraptured with their strength, they risk too much and perish in the process. Usually it's the sun that kills them, boiling their blood so fast their heart fails like a firefighter fallen from blazing heat. Yes, we have beating hearts, but they're not like yours. Ours tick far too long.

I gaze inside the bookstore. There is a cozy little café on the left where coffee, chocolate, tea and freshly baked muffins are served. In a seating area beside it, an audience gazes at a tall gentleman standing before them. This must be Professor Hardcastle, but I can't make him out from here. To his right, the shop winds around wooden bookcases densely packed with literature chosen by Malaprop's erudite employees. The checkout counter is on the far side and beyond it spills another room with rows of luscious books stacked from floor to ceiling, waiting to be devoured.

It's almost as tempting as blood. I scan the street outside, but see only a squad car idling down the block. My will is weak from hunger and, against my better judgment, I open the ambulance door and step out. No one looks as I cross the sidewalk. My face is thoroughly hidden beneath my cap and my slender frame ensconced in a navy jacket that rarely draws the eye. A wave of warmth and delicious aromas hits me as I open the door: coffee and chocolate and ginger.