Zinnia

Chapter 10

The storm of passion stunned her. The deluge came thundering out of nowhere, sweeping her up in a magnificent wave. She found herself whirling down into the depths of an uncharted sea.

Zinnia could almost feel the energy crackling in the front seat of the Synchron. She wondered vaguely why there were no actual sparks.

Nick's mouth was infinitely compelling, infinitely demanding, infinitely satisfying. She tasted his need, savored his hunger, gloried in his desire for her. He even smelled good, she decided. Enticingly masculine. She could tell that he used soap but did not bother with cologne. She liked that. She liked that very much. She had never been a fan of perfumed men.

"Oh, my God." She gave a small, choked cry of excitement and wrapped her arms very tightly around his neck. "I didn't realize ... I didn't know-"

"Maybe you didn't." Nick shifted, pressing her back against the seat. "But I've been wanting to do this since the minute you walked into my office."

"Must have been the red dress."

"I've always liked red." His eyes gleamed in the shadows as he bent his head to kiss her throat.

She felt a sultry heat pool in her lower body. Her fingers sank deep into his shoulders. The feel of sleek muscle and bone beneath his shirt sent another shimmer of anticipation through her.

She had always known deep inside that something had been lacking in the handful of previous relationships she had experienced. But she had never been able to identify the elusive, missing element. Tonight, she decided in a rush of exultant satisfaction, she was finally getting a real clue.

Flickers of awareness coursed along her nerve endings. That had never happened before during a kiss. It took her a few seconds to realize that the heat of Nick's body had set fire to all of her senses, even those that functioned on the metaphysical plane.

Obviously the paranormal side of her nature was as shaken and unsettled by the embrace as the physical side.

Nick crushed her up against the seat back, using his weight to hold her there. A strange, wholly inexplicable desire to create a prism unfurled within her. Startled, she resisted the psychic probing.

She was almost certain that Nick was a talent. At such close quarters, he might pick up her energy waves. It would be embarrassing. Sex, after all, was supposed to be confined to the physical plane. She had never heard of it affecting the psychic senses.

This was not normal. Definitely not normal.

But, then, she had been told by experts that her type of psychic energy was not entirely normal.

Nick moved his mouth to hers. She felt the edge of his teeth and immediately decided that an analysis of events on the metaphysical plane would have to wait. There was no time to contemplate the peculiar sensations that rippled through her. She was too thrilled, too curious, too dazzled to ponder such esoteric considerations.

"This is going to be good." Nick's voice was hoarse. His hand drifted down to cover her breast. "Very good."

"Nick."

Out of the corner of her eye, Zinnia noticed that steam was condensing on the inside of the Synchron's windows. A part of her brain was still thinking clearly enough to be amazed by her own reaction to the explosion of sexual tension. She was chagrined to realize that she hadn't even recognized the volatile nature of the atmosphere that had been swirling in the front seat of the car until Nick reached for her.

Apparently he had figured it out right away.

But she had an excellent excuse for her delay in grasping the reality of the situation, she told herself. She had never experienced anything like it before in her life.

She nestled deeper into Nick's embrace, intensely aware of the hard, unyielding shape of his erection against her leg.

He was big. Very big. Maybe abnormally so. But certainly interesting.

Gingerly, she put her hand on his thigh, learning the broad outline of him through the taut fabric of his black trousers. His answering groan was encouraging.

She threaded the fingers of her other hand through the hair that covered the nape of his neck. She could have sworn that his groan became a low growl.

He slid one hand down her spine and curved his fingers around her hip. Another shiver that was both physical and metaphysical shot through her. This was not supposed to happen.

"Impossible," she muttered against his throat.

"No," Nick said. "Highly improbable, but not impossible. I haven't done this in the front seat of a car since I was eighteen, but I think I can remember how."

"That's not what I meant." She flinched as another burst of psychic awareness echoed the tug of physical desire. "There's something strange going on here."

"It's just the console. Let's move to the back. It will be more comfortable there."

He was talking about sex, she thought. Here she was, wondering if the psychic side of her nature had gone on the fritz and had begun producing metaphysical sexual hallucinations while Nick was calmly suggesting they get more comfortable.

A disorienting panic flared deep within her. It was strong enough to dampen a large measure of her earlier enthusiasm.

She opened her eyes and planted her hands against his strong chest.

"Wait." She was breathless. "That's enough. We've got to stop. Right now."

Nick stilled. Slowly he raised his head to look down at her. "Why?"

The appalling simplicity of the question left her speechless for a few seconds. She had no idea of how to explain the peculiar sensations she had been experiencing. "Uh, well-"

"You've had your antipregnancy vaccination like everyone else, I assume?"

"Yes," she sputtered, suddenly embarrassed by the pragmatic question. "Yes, of course."

His mouth curved slightly. "So have I. We're perfectly safe." He started to lower his head.

"That's not the point," she managed. "I'm trying to tell you that this has gone far enough. I said you could kiss me. That's all. For heaven's sake, we barely know each other. And one-night stands are not my style."

He raised his head and studied her for a long moment. There was a shattering intensity in his gaze that stopped the breath in her lungs. Zinnia could have sworn that a new kind of energy now hummed in the close confines of the car. This was not the sparkling, exciting zing of sexual attraction, physical or metaphysical. It was something much more dangerous.

"What, exactly," Nick said with great precision, "is your style?"

It occurred to Zinnia that she was in a somewhat precarious position. She was alone in an isolated park with one of the most notorious men in the city. Aunt Willy's words came back to her. The man is little more than a gangster.

"Don't you dare try to intimidate me, Nick Chas-tain. I came out here tonight to help you get that damned journal. I did you a very big favor. I suspect it annoys you to be in someone's debt, but that's the way things are. You owe me. I'm calling in the marker."

He stilled. The familiar enigmatic mask slipped into place on his austere features. "What do you want?"

"I want you to behave in a civilized manner."

The mask dissolved as quickly as it had formed. Amusement glittered in his eyes. "I love it when you talk dirty."

She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

His smile was barely discernible. "Never mind. You're right, I do owe you. And I would like to repay the debt."

She eyed him warily. "How?"

He curled his finger around one trailing tendril of her hair. "Would you have dinner with me?"

"Dinner?" She could not seem to get her thoughts into logical order. "When?"

"Tomorrow night?" He glanced at his watch. "Make that tonight."

"I have a focus assignment tonight."

"The following night?"

"You're serious about this, aren't you?"

His gaze did not waver. "Very."

"But you don't need my assistance now. You've got the journal."

"Forget the journal. Will you have dinner with me?"

"You don't need to repay me. I take back what I said about your being in my debt."

"Fine. I don't owe you. I still want to have dinner with you."

She hesitated. "I'm not sure if it would be a good idea. The tabloids seem to have lost interest in us. If we're seen together again in public it might start a new wave of speculation."

"I don't give a damn about the tabloids or the gossip columns." He brushed his thumb across her lower lip.

She was horrified to realize that his touch made her lower lip tremble ever so slightly. She swallowed and took a deep breath.

"Excuse me, but I was under the impression that you were very concerned about your privacy," she said.

"You mean you heard that I'm reclusive? Secretive?"

"Among other things. Are you telling me that's not the truth?"

"I'm telling you that I want to have dinner with you. I'll put up with the gossip and the speculation in order to do so. All I want from you is an answer. Yes, or no?"

It was not the most gallant or gracious invitation she'd ever had, but at least he was not trying to manipulate her this time, she thought. He was simply asking her out on a date. Sort of.

Having to make a request, knowing he had no way to enforce the answer he wanted, was no doubt a completely foreign experience for Nick Chastain. She almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

A dinner date with him would not be wise, she told herself. It would alarm her family, worry her friends at Psynergy, Inc., and quite possibly draw unwanted attention from the tabloids.

But a few sparks of the invisible, beguiling energy that had sizzled between them a moment ago still snapped in the air around her. She had waited all of her adult life to feel that delicious kind of energy, she thought.

And Nick had asked, not threatened or manipulated.

"Yes," she said. "I would like to have dinner with you."

"I called it the Lost Expedition." Newton DeForest cradled the trailing end of a green vine in one heavily gloved hand and clipped it with a pair of gardening shears. "Bartholomew Chastain had made two earlier expeditions to map the islands of the Western Seas. Both had been extremely successful. The teams found deposits of previously unknown ores and minerals. They brought back specimens of a vast array of new plant and animal life. But Chastain's last expedition simply vanished in the jungles of some uncharted island."

"But why aren't there any official records of the expedition?" Zinnia watched uneasily as crimson liquid seeped from the cut vine. The severed plant looked as if it were bleeding.

Leo's information had been correct in one respect, she thought. Newton DeForest was definitely strange. He had invited her into his garden while they talked and she had readily agreed. She loved plants and longed for the day when she could afford to buy a house with space for a garden.

But nothing in DeForest's garden looked quite right to her. There was a grotesque quality to the foliage. Leaves appeared oddly shaped. The colors of the occasional blooms did not look wholesome. Vines were twisted in an unnatural fashion.

The extensively planted grounds of the DeForest estate existed in a perpetual gloom created by a thick canopy of broad leaves and gnarled vines. Once Zinnia got past the trellised gate, she found herself enveloped in an artificial twilight.

Within a few steps she realized that she was disoriented. That bothered her more than the wrongness of the shapes and colors of the foliage. Her sense of direction was usually fairly reliable. She knew that she was not far from the main house but she could no longer see the aging, tumbledown stone structure. She was not certain how to get back to it. She had already lost sight of the trellised garden gate.

She was surrounded by walls of dense dark green. They towered several feet overhead. Corridors formed of seemingly impenetrable masses of leaves twisted their way into the interior of the estate. She stood with Newton in a narrow crooked passageway formed by thick creeping vines. There was a carpet of luminous green moss underfoot. It gave off a faint eerie sheen.

Nothing was normal in this garden, she decided. And that included the gardener.

Newton seemed pleasant enough, even if he was distinctly odd. She wished that he had thought to offer her a cup of coff-tea. She could have used it. What with all the excitement in Curtain Park during the night, she had completely forgotten about her appointment with Professor DeForest until she had awakened an hour ago. In her rush to make the meeting on time she had missed breakfast, coff-tea, and the morning paper-all the little rituals that got the day started.

Newton was a plump, jovial, red-cheeked elf of a man with a neatly trimmed beard and a comfortable paunch. He wore a leather gardener's apron festooned with tool and implement pockets over his plaid shirt and denim trousers. Tiny round glasses perched on his nose. A cap covered his balding head.

He was obviously enamored of his subject, the legendary Third Chastain Expedition. From the way in which he was holding forth, Zinnia suspected that Newton missed the captive audience he had once enjoyed in the classroom. She did not mind his chattiness in the least. She was prepared to listen.

The journal was now safely in Nick's hands, but Morris Fenwick's killer was still at large. If she stuck to her suspicion that Morris had not been murdered for dope money, then the journal was the only other lead she had. She needed to know more about the Third Expedition.

"Ah, yes. Why aren't there any official records of the Lost Expedition?" Newton gave her a sly approving glance as he clipped another vine. "Your question is an excellent one, indeed. I spent years looking for documents and papers that would prove my theories."

Zinnia watched, fascinated, as more blood-red juice dripped from the cut vine. "Did you find any hard evidence?"

"Nothing that satisfied the naysayers and the scoffers." Newton sighed as he surveyed an ugly purple flower. "There was some early paperwork indicating that a Third Chastain Expedition had been planned at one time. But official records state that it was never carried out because Chastain wandered off into the jungle and killed himself a few days before the team was scheduled to depart."

"But you believe that the expedition did take place?"

"Oh, yes." Newton said. "I'm quite sure of it. Twenty years ago I managed to find a couple of old jelly-ice miners who happened to be in Serendipity the week the team gathered there. They remembered the five men of the Chastain Expedition."

"Serendipity?"

"That was the jumping-off point. The last outpost of civilization, you might say. It was just a small mining camp located on one of the outer islands. It was later abandoned by the company. The jungle grew back very quickly. There's nothing left there today. I made a trip out to the Western Islands several years ago to take a look for myself."

"What happened to your two witnesses? Why didn't they ever come forward?"

"Another good question." Newton prodded the closed petals of a sickly yellow flower with the tip of his shears. The bloom opened with a snap to reveal a nest of sharp spines at the center. "The answer is that by the time I was ready to publish my work, they were both dead."

"Killed, do you mean?"

Newton looked sly. "Oh, the authorities claimed the deaths were not mysterious. One man was an alcoholic. He wound up facedown in a gutter in Founders' Square. The other had a drug problem. He was killed by another addict whom he apparently tried to rob. Utter nonsense."

"What do you think happened to them?"

"The were killed by the aliens." Newton gave her a knowing look. "Not directly, of course. The creatures most likely placed some poor dupe under mind control and then ordered him to get rid of the witnesses."

Zinnia winced. "I see." She thought about asking Newton why the aliens hadn't had him killed, too, since he was the one who was onto their nefarious scheme, but she refrained. He might not want to continue talking to her if she confronted him with too much logic. "There must have been other people who recalled the expedition."

"I managed to find a few others who recalled that it had been planned, but as far as they know, it was canceled at the last minute because of Chastain's suicide. Everyone I talked to who was involved, from the university officials to the folks who lived in the islands, believes the expedition never left Serendipity."

"What about the families of the five men who formed the expedition team? They must have been a bit suspicious when their relatives failed to return."

"Chastain was written off as a suicide by his family. The other four men had no close relatives. No one noticed that they had simply disappeared."

Zinnia frowned. "Isn't that a little strange?"

"Not really. Chastain handpicked his teams, himself. His first requirement was that every individual be experienced in jungle survival. That limited his pool of potential candidates to the usual assortment of loners, bastards, and riffraff who tend to wind up in the islands and who are willing to sign on for expedition work. Not many would take that sort of job, in those days."

"Why not? It sounds rather exciting."

Newton chuckled. "Not nearly as exciting as prospecting for jelly-ice. After all, a man can get rich if he locates a deposit of ice. Expedition work, on the other hand, is a salaried job. Anything valuable that is discovered becomes the property of whoever has funded the venture."

"In this case that would have been the University of New Portland, right?"

"Correct. And, as I said, their records show they canceled the expedition after Chastain disappeared."

"Hmm." Zinnia bent closer to a severed vine to examine the red juice that dripped from it.

"No, no, Miss Spring, you don't want to touch that little blood-creeper." Newton batted her hand away with a playful pat. "Not until the wound has sealed."

Zinnia glanced at him. "Wound?"

"Figure of speech." Newton's merry eyes danced behind his round spectacles. "As you can see, the vine appears to bleed when it's cut. The liquid is rather toxic. Leaves a nasty burn."

"Oh." Zinnia quickly shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans as she followed Newton down another green passageway. "So, you're convinced that the expedition team was abducted by aliens?"

"It's the only reasonable explanation for the disappearance of those five men together with all of the records that would have proven that the team left on schedule," Newton said. "I admit that my work has caught the attention of one or two kooks over the years, thanks to the tabloids. Some of the fools have come up with their own theories, but they're all nonsense."

"What are some of the other theories?"

"Several years ago one of the tabloids published a fanciful piece which claimed that the last Chastain expedition had discovered a treasure of some kind. Perhaps a huge deposit of fire crystal. The author suggested that the five members of the team had made a pact to conceal the location of the crystal and then faked their own disappearance."

"So that they wouldn't have to turn the discovery over to the university officials?"

"Yes." Newton chuckled. "Ridiculous theory, of course. If those five men had been secretly mining a vast quantity of fire crystal all these years, someone would have noticed. Fire crystal is so rare that if a lot of it suddenly came on the market, it would cause quite a stir."

"True." Zinnia could not argue that point. "Still, the idea that the team found a treasure worth hiding is intriguing."

"Bah. Five men could not have kept such a secret for long." Newton waved his shears at her. "Those men were abducted by aliens, Miss Spring. And then those same aliens plotted to remove all traces of the Third Expedition so that no one would figure out what had happened."

"It seems a little unlikely," Zinnia suggested as gently as possible.

"Not unlikely at all. Don't forget, we have proof that aliens have visited this planet in the past."

"You're talking about the relics Lucas Trent found."

"Indeed," Newton said.

"But the experts say they're extremely ancient. Whoever left them behind has been gone for a thousand years or more."

"That doesn't mean they didn't come back thirty-five years ago to kidnap Chastain and his men."

"But why would they choose those five people?" Zinnia asked.

"We may never know the answer to that, my dear. They are aliens, after all. Who can tell how their minds work?" Newton frowned. "You may want to stand back from that snap-tongue."

"Snap-tongue?" Zinnia glanced down at a large, fleshy, throat-shaped leaf.

"A clever little plant, if I do say so. It can take off a finger or two if you aren't careful. Watch this." Newton plucked a small plastic bag from his pocket and opened it to remove a strip of raw meat. He tossed the meat toward the snap-tongue plant.

When the tidbit sailed past the leaf, a long, fleshy, tongue-like extension unfurled. It snagged the passing meal and bundled it swiftly downward into the sticky fibrous heart of the plant.

Zinnia grimaced as the meat vanished down a green gullet. "I see what you mean."

"The key to making it through my maze without any little accidents is to not touch anything," Newton said happily.

Zinnia halted abruptly. "We're in a maze?"

"Indeed. Hadn't you realized that yet?" Newton chuckled indulgently. "A matrix-talent friend designed it for me. It's constructed in such a way that anyone who enters it is funneled directly to the center. Once there, the visitor won't find his way out unless he knows the key."

Zinnia glanced warily around. "Which you do know, I trust?"

"Indeed, indeed. It's my maze, after all." Newton tapped a seemingly impenetrable wall of leaves. "Come along. Let's see some action."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I was speaking to my naughty little spike-trap here," Newton explained. "Usually it's a bit more active at this time of day but I suppose the slight frost this morning has slowed it down somewhat."

"Slowed it down?" Zinnia took a step back.

"I'll demonstrate." Newton touched the tip of his gardening shears to the impassive green wall one more time. "If I can wake it up, that is. Ah, there we go. About time, sleepy-head."

Zinnia heard a soft, sibilant rustling. In the next instant a mass of long sharp thorns burst forth through the green leaves. She realized that any crea-ture unlucky enough to have brushed up against the wall of green would have been impaled.

"Interesting." She swallowed heavily.

"I've been working on this hybrid for some years now." Newton looked pleased with himself. "In its natural habitat a spike-trap is rather small. The thorns can only pin insects or small birds. But my experiments have produced this version which could easily fell a medium-sized rabbit-mouse."

Zinnia eyed the massed thorns. "And do serious damage to anything larger."

"Indeed, indeed." Newton beamed. "As I said, the trick to enjoying my garden is to avoid touching anything unless you know exactly what you're doing."

"I'll keep that in mind." Zinnia made certain that she was standing in the very center of the green passageway. "Have you ever heard any rumors about Chastain's last expedition journal?"

"Journal?" Newton paused reflectively. "There must have been one, of course. After all, Chastain kept a journal for the first two expeditions. He was very meticulous in such matters. But the journal for the Third was no doubt lost when the aliens snatched him."

Zinnia had a feeling that Nick would not appreciate her informing Demented DeForest that the journal of the Third Expedition had turned up recently. She was reluctant to admit it, but it was obvious that she was wasting her time with the professor.

"You've been very helpful, sir. Thank you for answering my questions. I really should be on my way now."

"Oh, you mustn't leave before you've seen the heart of my maze, my dear. It's a very special place, if I do say so, myself."

"What's at the center?" she asked uneasily.

"My water plant grotto, of course." Newton chortled as he ambled off down a dark green passage. "Come along, my dear. I'll show it to you. I'm very proud of my aquatic specimens."

Zinnia's palms suddenly felt damp. She dried them on her jeans. "I don't have a lot of time, Professor."

"Oh, you'll have time for this, my dear." Newton disappeared around a corner. "I love to show off my grotto. Besides, you can't get back to the house without me."

"Professor DeForest, wait-"

"This way, Miss Spring." Newton's voice grew fainter.

Zinnia looked back the way she had come and realized she was completely lost. She could not identify which of the twisting corridors of green foliage had brought her to her present position. There was no choice but to follow Newton.

"Professor DeForest, I really can't stay long," she said in what she hoped was a firm voice.

"I understand, my dear." His voice grew fainter.

Zinnia took one last glance over her shoulder. It was hopeless. She would never be able to find her way out without Newton.

"Hold on, Professor, I'm coming. I can't wait to see your grotto."

She hurried around a corner and nearly collided with Newton.

"Ah, there you are." His eyes crinkled with cheery pleasure. "This way." He turned and trundled down another path. "Remember, don't touch anything."

"Believe me, I won't." Zinnia followed reluctantly. "How do you find your way through this maze?"

"Quite simple, my dear." He glanced back at her with his twinkling blue eyes. "I know my garden. Be careful of that Curtain plant. You wouldn't want to be standing too near when it closes."

Zinnia edged around a heavy, drooping cascade of leaves. She thought she heard water bubbling somewhere in the distance. An unpleasant smell of rotting vegetation wafted past her nose.

"Here we are, my dear," Newton said as he turned one last corner. "Lovely, isn't it? I spend so many enjoyable hours sitting on that stone bench over there."

Zinnia walked cautiously around the corner and saw a rocky grotto covered in slimy green moss. A pool of dark water swirled around the opening of a stony cavern and disappeared into the black interior.

Large evil-looking plants hunkered around the perimeter of the pool like so many hungry predators waiting for prey. Zinnia supposed that, given the general theme of the garden, that was not an overly imaginative image.

Greasy-looking vines trailed across the entrance of the grotto. More vegetation floated on the surface of the dark pool. Zinnia glimpsed something large and tuberous inside the cave.

"Most unusual," she said.

Newton glowed with an almost paternal pride. "Thank you, my dear. I have devoted years to my plants. They are all unique. So nice to be able to show them off once in a while."

Zinnia was about to suggest once again, in a tactful manner, that she had to leave. She paused when a thought struck her. "Professor, you must have made some notes in the course of your research."

"Indeed, indeed. A great many. Haven't looked at them for years. They're filed away in the special place where I store all of the mementos of my career in academia."

"Where is that?"

"Beneath the house in the family crypt, of course." Newton gave her a wistful smile. "The perfect place for that sort of thing. My career in academia, after all, is as dead as my relatives. And, frankly, between you and me, my dear, I much preferred my career to my family. Nasty lot."

A vision of Aunt Willy popped into Zinnia's mind. "I can sympathize with that feeling, Professor. I have one last question."

"What's that, Miss Spring?"

"You said that the University of New Portland officials were quite willing to believe that Bartholomew Chastain committed suicide."

"They accepted the story without a qualm."

"Why is that? Did Chastain have a history of psychological problems?"

"No. But he was rumored to be a matrix-talent. Everyone knows how odd they are."

It was after ten when Zinnia stepped out of the elevator and started down the hall to her loft apartment. She was exhausted. The late focus assignment had gone on much too long, as was often the case with matrix-talents. They had a tendency to lose themselves in the patterns they generated on the metaphysical plane. When that happened they enjoyed themselves so much that Zinnia hated to interrupt them. Unfortunately for them, Psynergy, Inc. billed by the hour.

This evening the client, a matrix working in the field of biological synergism, had obsessed on an elaborate array of biosyn statistics. When Zinnia had gently reminded her of the passing time, the researcher had brushed the interruption aside. She had promised that the lab would cover the cost.

Clementine would be pleased at the high bill the matrix had run up, Zinnia thought as she let herself into her loft. But right now, bed sounded far more exciting than a bonus in her paycheck. It had been a very long day.

She yawned as she reached for the light switch.

A shadow shifted in the darkness near the fireplace. Zinnia stopped yawning and prepared to start screaming.

"Tell me," Nick said from the heavy Later Expansion Period reading chair. "What in five hells made you think you would get away with it?"

"What?" She was so stunned, she could barely speak. Her hand fell away from the light switch, leaving the loft in darkness. "What do you mean?"

"It's a very well-done forgery, I'll give you that much." Nick's eyes gleamed in the shadows. "But it's a fake from first page to last."

"What are you talking about?"

"The journal, of course." His voice was infinitely soft, infinitely dangerous. "The one you so generously arranged for me to buy from Polly and Omar last night. It's a complete fraud."

Zinnia took a step forward and paused. She was too dazed to think very clearly. "How do you know that?"

"How do I know? This is how I know."

Power slammed across the metaphysical plane, a great raw surge of it.

Matrix-talent seeking a prism.

Demanding a prism.

Hunting a prism.

Summoning a prism.

Zinnia stopped breathing when she felt the questing presence of the psychic probe. There was something disturbingly familiar about it. Something that called to her as no other talent ever had. Instinctively she responded with a crystal-clear prism.

A torrent of dazzling power crashed through it, emerging in great waves of controlled psychic energy.

She knew this talent. She knew this man.

"It was you," Zinnia whispered. "You're the vampire."