about the transformation. I can only make another vampire by exchanging blood with the 
person, and not just a little blood. My blood has to overwhelm the other person's system 
before he or she becomes immortal.
  Of course, I do not make vampires these days.
  I drive south along the coast. I am in Northern California before I stop; it is late. 
There is a bar off the side of the road, fairly large. I make a smooth entrance. The men 
look me over, exchange glances with their buddies. The bartender does not ask me for my 
ID, not after I give him a hard glance. There are many more men than women around. I am 
searching for a particular type, someone passing through, and I spot a candidate sitting 
alone in the comer. He is big and burly, unshaven; his warm jacket is not dirty, but 
there are oil stains that did not come out from the last cleaning. His face is pleasant 
enough, sitting behind his frosty beer, but a tad lonely. He is a long-distance truck 
driver, I know the type. I have often drunk from their veins.
  I sit down in front of him, and he looks up in surprise. I smile; the expression can 
disarm as well as alarm, but he is happy to see me. He orders me a beer and we talk. I do 
not ask if he is married-though it is obvious he is-and he does not bring it up. After a 
while we leave and he takes me to a motel, although I would have been satisfied with the 
back of his truck. I tell him as much, but he pats my leg and shakes his head. He is a 
gentleman. I won't kill him.
  It is while he is undressing me that I bite into his neck. The act makes him sigh with 
pleasure and lean his head back; he is not really sure what I am doing. He stays in that 
position the whole time I drink, hypnotized with the sensation, which to him feels as if 
he is being caressed from the inside out-with the tip of my nails. Which to me feels like 
it always does, sweet and natural, as natural as making love. But I do not have sex with 
him. Instead, I bite the tip of my own tongue and let a drop of my blood fall onto his 
wounds. They heal instantly, leaving no scar, and I lay him down to rest. I have drunk a 
couple pints. He will sleep deep, maybe wake up with a slight headache:
  "Forget," I whisper in his ear.
  He won't remember me. They seldom do.
  The next morning I sit in Mr. Castro's history class. My cream-colored dress is 
fashionable, on the rich side; the embroidered hem swings four inches above my knees. I 
have very nice legs and do not mind showing them off. My long wavy blond hair hangs loose 
on my shoulders. I wear no makeup or jewelry. Ray Riley sits off to my right, and I study 
him with interest. Class will begin in three minutes.
  His face has a depth his father's never imagined. He is cut in the mode of many 
handsome modern youths, with curly brown hair and a chiseled profile. Yet his inner 
character pushes through his natural beauty and almost makes a mockery of it. The boy is 
already more man than boy. It shows in his brown eyes, soft but quick, in his silent 
pauses, as he takes in what his classmates say. He reflects on it, and either accepts or 
rejects it, not caring what the others think. He is his own person, Ray Riley, and I like 
that about him.
  He talks to a girl on his right. Her name is Pat, and she is clearly his girlfriend. 
She is a scrawny thing, but with a smile that lights up whenever she looks at Ray. Her 
manner is assertive but not pushy, simply full of life. Her hands are always busy, often 
touching him. I like her as well and wonder if she is going to be an obstacle. For her 
sake, I hope not. I honestly prefer not to kill young people. Pat's clothes are simple, a 
blouse and jeans. I suspect her family has little money. But Ray is dressed sharp. It 
makes me think of the million I offered his father. Ray does not appear upset. Probably 
his father often disappears for days at a time.
  I clear my throat and he looks over at me.
  "Hello," he says. "Are you new?"
  "Hi," I say. "Yes. I just checked in this morning." I offer my dainty hand. "My name's 
Lara Adams."
  "Ray Riley." He shakes my hand. His touch is warm, his blood healthy. I can smell blood 
through people's skin and tell if they have any serious ailments-even years before the 
disease manifests. Ray continues to stare at me, and I bat my long lashes. Behind him Pat 
has stopped talking to another classmate and looks over. "Where are you from?" he asks.
  "Colorado."
  "Really? You have a slight accent."
  His comment startles me because I am a master at accents. "What accent do you hear?" I 
ask, genuinely curious.
  "I don't know. English, French-it sounds like a combination."
  I have lived in both England and France for extended periods of time. "I have traveled 
a lot," I say. "Maybe that's what you hear."
  "Must be." He gestures to his side. "Lara, this is my girlfriend, Pat McQueen. Pat, 
meet Lara Adams."
  Pat nods. "Hi, Lara." Her manner is not the least defensive. She trusts in Ray's love, 
and in her own.
  That is going to change. I think of Riley's computer, which I have left in his office. 
It will not be terribly long before the police come to look around, and maybe take the 
computer away. But I have not taken the machine because I would have no way of explaining 
to Ray what I was doing with it, much less be able to convince him to open its data 
files. "Hello, Pat," I say. "Nice to meet you." "Same here," she says. "That's a 
beautiful dress." "Thank you." I would have preferred to have met Ray without Pat around. 
Then it would have been easier for him to start a relationship with me without her 
between us. Yet I am confident I can gather Ray's interest. What man could resist what I 
have to offer? My eyes go back to him. "What are we studying in this class?" I ask.
  "European history," he says, "The class just gives a broad overview. Right now we're 
talking about the French Revolution. Know anything about it?"
  "I knew Marie Antoinette personally," I lie. I knew of Antoinette, but I was never 
close to the French nobility, for they were boring. But I was there, in the crowd, the 
day Marie Antoinette was beheaded. I actually sighed when the blade sliced across her 
neck. The guillotine was one of the few methods of execution that disturbed me. I have 
been hanged a couple of times and crucified on four separate occasions, but I got over 
it. But had I lost my head, I know that would have been the end. I was there at the start 
of the French Revolution, but I was in America before it ended.
  "Did she really say, 'Let them eat cake'?" Ray asks, going along with what he thought 
was a joke.
  "I believe it was her aunt who said that." The teacher, Mr. Castor, enters the room, a 
sad-looking example of a modern educator if ever there was one. He only smiles at the 
pretty girls as he strides to the front of the room. He is attractive in an 
aftershave-commercial sort of way. I nod to him. "What's he like?"
  Ray shrugs. "Not bad."
  "But not good?"
  Ray sizes me up. "I think he'll like you."
  "Understood."
  The class starts. Mr. Castro introduces me to the rest of the students and asks me to 
stand and talk about myself. I remain seated and say ten words. Mr. Castor appears put 
out but lets it go. The lesson begins.
  Ah, history, what an illusion humanity has of the past. And yet scholars argue the