Last Vampire 6(9)

I ask weakly. "To say goodbye?"



"Yes."



My voice cracks with emotion. I need her to under­stand why. "I loved Suzama. I loved her with all my heart. When she died, I almost died."



Her voice is soothing. "You were younger then. You are stronger now."



I look up at her. "Will I see you again? After today?"



Suzama stares at me for a long time. It is Suzama, yes, and she stares with the eyes of humanity's great­est clairvoyant. Her eyes are dry now; she has no tears, as she slowly shakes her head.



"I don't think so, Sita,"she says.



She turns and walks away.





I am left alone with my daughter's ashes, and soon these are gone, too, on the gentle ripples of the bay. I poured them from the vase without words, but with great nostalgia and love. True, she was an avatar, a creature of the divine, yet even Kalika's ashes dissolve in water. My memories are strong then, my pain nailed to a bloody past. But strong also is my vision of the future. It is true what Suzama says. I will leave this place, leave my few friends, and confront an enemy I know will kill me. Kill me because I crave love instead of power. But this I have lived five thousand years to learn. Power is as cold as forgotten ashes. Only my love can keep alive the memory of my daughter, the stories of Ray, Arturo, Yaksha, and most of all the grace of Krishna.



My blessed Lord—how he must laugh at me when I sing him to sleep in the middle of the night. Sing him songs from the holy Vedas that he himself wrote when he walked under the trees of ancient India. It is the divine child I will miss the most. Not to see him grow old, to hear him speak wisdom. I fear I will be ash before he even utters his first words. And I have to wonder who will remember me when I am gone. I worry that even Suzama and Seymour will forget me. Me—Alisa, Sita, or a thousand other names that I have been called by strangers who became friends or lovers. I fear it will be as if I never was. Never a vampire. The last vampire, whose long life now comes to a close.



Death does not scare me, but oblivion does. There is a difference. In my daughter's ashes I see my own bright star sink beneath the surface and go out. My end will erase my beginning. I don't know how but I know it is true. And I must choose that end because it is my destiny.





3





The wallet and the passport from Heidi's pockets identified her as a certain Linda Clairee. I know her address, her bank account number, even her supposed birthdate. She is supposed to have lived in a house not far from where I lived when I gave birth to Kalika. I am very curious as I drive to her house after flying into LAX.



The place is modest, nondescript even, stucco walls with a wooden fence surrounding an uninspired yard of grass and a few bushes. Slowly I walk toward the front door. There is someone inside watching TV and drinking what smells like beer. The sounds and odors drift out through a torn screen door. I knock lightly and brace myself for instant death. Yet I have a matrix in my pocket,and I have finally figured out how to operate the ray gun. It is a totally cool weapon.



A bearded fellow in a frayed T-shirt answers the door. He looks as if he's on his second six-pack. Twenty-five, at most, his gut hangs over his belt like a sausage offthe side of a breakfast plate. But I warn myself that Heidi—Linda—appeared to be very ordi­nary until her psychic force field went up. This guy might be more than he appears, but it's hard to believe.



"Hello," I say. "Is Linda home?"



He burps. "She's out of town."



At least he doesn't know she's missing her head.



"My name is Alisa,"I say. "I'm an old friend. Do you know when she'll be back?"



"She didn't say."



"OK." I catch his eye through the screen door and squeeze his neuron currents. "Would it be OK if I come in and search through her personal things?"



His brain is soft mud, easy to impress—Ithink. "Sure," he says, and opens the door for me.



"Thank you," I respond.



I leave him in the living room, watching a baseball game. But my ears never leave him. If he tries to sneak up on me, he'll fail. But I won't kill him, if he shows strange powers, not right away.



Linda's room is neat and tidy. She seemed to enjoy sewing and the Dodgers. And if I begin to think I have the wrong house, there are pictures of her and Brother Bud on the mirror on top of the chest of drawers, cheap Polaroids shot with a camera with a dusty lens. Heidi is Linda and I am in the right bedroom. In each of the pictures Linda smiles as if someone just told her to.



I search the drawers and find nothing important. Even the closet is boring—clothes and baseball caps, shoes and socks. And this is the creature who said we all have powers? Talk about a double life. I am on the verge of leaving when a stack of papers under the bed catches my eye.