She doesn't have an answer and neither do I.

Then one frosty January evening I'm walking home from the coffee shop and I see her sitting at a window table of the Royal Oak. I stop and look at her through the gla.s.s, struck again by how gorgeous she is, how no one else seems to be aware of it, of her. I go inside when she beckons to me. Today she's casual chic: jeans, a black cotton sweater, cowboy boots. Like me, she probably doesn't feel the cold anymore, but she has a winter coat draped over the back of her chair. There's a pint gla.s.s in front of her, half full of amber beer.

"Have a seat," she says, indicating the empty chair across from her.

I do. I don't know what to do with my hands. I don't know where to look. I want to stare at her. I want to pretend I'm cool, that this is no big deal. But it is.

"I've been looking for you," I finally say.

"Have you now."

I nod. Ignoring the hint of amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes, I start to ask, "I need to know-"

"No, don't tell me," she says, interrupting. "Let me guess. First you tried to turn . . . oh, your best friend, or maybe a brother or a sister, and they turned you down and made you feel like a monster even though you only feed on the wicked. But somehow, even that doesn't feel right anymore. So now you want to end it all. Or at least get an explanation as to why I turned you."

I find myself nodding.

"We all go through this," she says. "But sooner or later-if we survive-we learn to leave all the old ties behind: friends, family, ideas of right and wrong. We become what we are meant to be. Predators."

I think of how I wanted to turn Ca.s.sie and start to feel a little sick. Up until this moment, her refusing to be turned had seemed such a personal blow. Now I'm just grateful that of the two of us, she, at least, had some common sense. Bad enough that one of us is a monster.

"What if I don't want to be a predator?" I ask.

The woman shrugs. "Then you die."

"I thought we couldn't die."

"To all intents and purposes," she says. "But we're not invincible. Yes, we heal fast, but it's genetic healing. We can deal with illnesses and broken bones, torn tissues and birth defects. But if a car hits us, if we take a bullet or a stake in the heart or head, if we're hurt in such a way that our accelerated healing facilities don't have the chance to help us, we can still die. We don't need Van Helsings or chipper cheerleaders in short skirts to do us in. Crossing the street at the wrong time can be just as effective."

"Why did you turn me?"

"Why not?"

All I can do is stare at her.

"Oh, don't take it so dramatically," she says. "I know you'd like a better reason than that-how I saw something special in you, how you have some destiny. But the truth is, it was for my own amus.e.m.e.nt."

"So it was just a . . . whim."

"You need to stop being so serious about everything," she tells me. "We're a different species. The old rules don't apply to us."

"So you just do whatever you want?"

She smiles, a predatory smile. "If I can get away with it."

"I'm not going to be like that."

"Of course you won't," she says. "You're different. You're special."

I shake my head. "No, I'm just stronger. I'm going to hold onto my ideals."

"Tell me that again in a hundred years," she says. "Tell me how strong you feel when anything you ever cared about, when everybody you love is long dead and gone."

I get up to leave, to walk out on her, but she beats me to it. She stands over me, and touches my hair with her long cool fingers. For a moment I imagine I see a kind of tenderness in her eyes, but then the mockery is back.

"You'll see," she says.

I stay at the table and watch her step outside. Watch her back as she walks on up Bank Street. Watch until she's long gone and there are only strangers pa.s.sing by the windows of the Royal Oak.

The thing that scares me the most is that maybe she's right.

I realize leaving home wasn't the answer. I'm still too close to the people I love. I have to go a lot farther than I have so far. I have to keep moving and not make friends. Forget I have family. If I don't have to watch the people I love age and die, then maybe I won't become as cynical and bitter as the woman who made me what I am.

But the more I think of it, the more I feel that I'd be a lot better off just dying for real.

Four: Ca.s.sandra In the end, I did it for Apples, though she doesn't know that. I don't think I can ever tell her that. She thinks I did it to be able to run and breathe and be as normal as an undead person can be. But I could see how being what she is and all alone was tearing her apart and I started to think, who do I love the best in the world? Who's always been there for me? Who stayed in with her weak kid sister when she could have been out having fun? Who never complained about taking me anywhere? Who always, genuinely enjoyed the time she spent with me?

She never said anything to me about what she was going through, but I could see the loneliness tearing at her and I couldn't let her be on her own anymore. I started to get scared that she might take off for good, or do something to herself, and how could I live with that?

Besides, maybe this is my destiny. Maybe with our enhanced abilities we can be some kind of dynamic duo superhero team, out rescuing the world, or at least little human pieces of the world.

The funny thing is, when I told her I wanted her to turn me, she was the one who argued against it. But I wouldn't take no and she finally gave in.

And it's not so bad. Even the blood-sucking's not so bad, though I do miss eating and drinking. I guess the worst part was those three days I was dead. You're aware, but not aware, floating in some kind of goopy muck that feels like it's made up of all the bad things people have ever done or thought.

But you get over it.

What's my fear? Fuzzy animal slippers. I used to adore them, back when I was alive. Even at sixteen-years-old, I was still wearing them around the house. Now I break into a cold sweat just thinking about them.

Pretty lame, huh? But I guess it's a better weakness than some you can have. Because, really. How often do you unexpectedly run into someone wearing fuzzy animal slippers?

I still have this idea that we should turn Mom and Dad, too, but I'm going to wait awhile before I bring it up again. I think I understand Apples's nervousness better after she told me what she learned the last time she saw the woman who turned her. I don't think it's that she doesn't love our parents. She's just nervous that they won't make the transition well. That they'll be more like the woman than us.

"Let's give it a year or two," she said, " 'till we see how we do ourselves."

Mom and Dad sure weren't happy about me moving out and into Apples's apartment. I wish I could at least tell them that I'm not sick anymore, but I'm kind of stuck having a secret ident.i.ty whenever we go back home for a visit. I have to carry around my puffer and pretend to use it. I have to put the leg brace on again, though we had to adjust it since my leg's all healed.

What's going to happen to us? I don't know. I just know that we'll be together. Always. And I guess, for now, that's enough.

The Screaming.

J.A. Konrath.

Joseph Andrew Konrath's first novel, Whiskey Sour (2004), introduced Lt. Jacqueline "Jack" Daniels. The eighth in the series, Stirred, will be published this year. Joe is also the editor of the Hitman anthology These Guns For Hire (2006). Under the name Jack Kilborn, Konrath has written four horror novels. His short stories have appeared in more than sixty magazines and compilations, and his work has been translated into ten languages. His blog, A Newbie's Guide to Publishing (jakonrath.blogspot.com), gets over a million hits a year.

Konrath's "The Screaming" was originally published in The Many Faces of Van Helsing, edited by Jeanne Cavelos. This excellent anthology featured new stories of literature's first vampire hunter: Bram Stoker's Dr. Abraham Van Helsing. In "The Screaming," we find the hunter and the hunted creepily combined.

"Three stinking quid?"

Colin wanted to reach over the counter and throttle the old b.u.g.g.e.r. The radio he brought in was brand new and worth at least twenty pounds.

Of course, it was also hot. Delaney's was the last p.a.w.nbroker in Liverpool that didn't ask questions. Colin dealt with them frequently because of this. But each and every time, he left the shop feeling ripped off.

"Look, this is state of the art. The latest model. You could at least go six."

As expected, the old w.a.n.k didn't budge. Colin took the three coins and left, muttering curses under his breath.

Where the h.e.l.l was he going to get more money?

Colin rubbed his hand, fingers trailing over dirty scabs. His eyes itched. His throat felt like he'd been swallowing gravel. His stomach was a tight fist that he couldn't unclench.

If he didn't score soon, the shakes would start.

Colin tried to work up enough saliva to spit, and only half-managed. The radio had been an easy s.n.a.t.c.h; stupid bird left it on the window ledge of her flat, plugged in and wailing a new Beatles tune. Gifts like that don't come around that often.

He used to do okay robbing houses, but the last job he pulled left him with three broken ribs and a mashed nose when the owner came home early. And Colin'd been in pretty good shape back then. Now-frail and wasted and brittle as he was-a good beating would kill him.

Not that Colin was afraid to die. He just wanted to score first. And three pounds wouldn't even buy him a taste.

Colin hunkered down on the walk, pulled up the collar on his wool coat. The coat had been nice once, bought when Colin was a straighty, making good wage. He'd almost sold it many times, but always held out. English winters bit at a man's bones. There was already a winter-warning chill in the air, even though autumn had barely started.

Still, if he could have gotten five pounds for it, he'd have shucked it in an instant. But with the rips, the stains, the p.i.s.s smell, he'd be lucky to get fifty p.

" 'Ello, Colin."

Colin didn't bother looking up. He recognized the sound of b.u.t.ts's raspy drone, and couldn't bear to tolerate him right now.

"I said, 'ello, Colin."

"I heard you, b.u.t.ts."

"No need to be rude, then."

b.u.t.ts plopped next to him without an invite, smelling like a loo set ablaze. His small eyes darted this way and that along the sidewalk, searching for half spent f.a.gs. That's how he'd earned his nickname.

"Oh, lucky day!"

b.u.t.ts grinned and reached into the street, plucking up something with filthy fingers. There was a lipstick stain on the filter, and it had been stamped flat.

"Good for a puff or two, eh?"

"I'm in no mood today, b.u.t.ts."

"Strung out again, are we?"

b.u.t.ts lit the b.u.t.t with some pub matches, drew hard.

"I need a few more quid for a nickle bag."

"You could pull a job."

"Look at me, b.u.t.ts. I weigh ten stone, and half that is the coat. A small child could beat my a.r.s.e."

"Just make sure there's no one home, mate."

Easier said, Colin thought.

"You know"-b.u.t.ts closed his eyes, smoke curling from his nostrils-"I'm short on scratch myself right now. Maybe we could team up for something. You go in, I could be lookout, we split the take."

Colin almost laughed. He didn't trust b.u.t.ts as far as he could chuck him.

"How about I be the lookout?"

"Sorry, mate. You'll run at the first sign of trouble."

"And you wouldn't?"

b.u.t.ts shrugged. His f.a.g went out. He made two more attempts at lighting it, and then flicked it back into the street.

"Sod it, then. Let's do a job where we don't need no lookout."

"Such as?"

b.u.t.ts scratched his beard, removed a twig.

"There's this house, see? In Heysham, near where I grew up. Been abandoned for a long time. Loaded with bounty, I bet. That antiquey stuff fetches quite a lot in the district."

"It's probably all been jacked a long time ago."

"I don't think so. When I was a pup, the road leading up to it was practically invisible. All growed over by woods, you see. Only the kids knew about it. And we all stayed far away."

"Why?"

"Stories. Supposed to have goblins. b.o.l.l.o.c.ks like that. I went up to it once, on a dare. Got within ten yards. Then I heard the screaming."

Colin rolled his eyes. He needed to quit wasting time with b.u.t.ts and think of some way to get money. It would be dark soon.

"You think I'm joshing? I swear on the head of my lovely, sainted mother. I got within a stone's throw, and a G.o.d-fearful scream comes out of the house. Sounded like the devil his self was torturing some poor soul. Wet my kecks, I did."

"It was probably one of your stupid mates, b.u.t.ts. Having a giggle at your expense."

"Wasn't a mate, Colin. I'm telling you, no kid in town went near that house. n.o.body did. And I've been thinking about it a lot, lately. I bet there's some fine stuff to nick in there."